Criminal Acts
by Stargazer Nataku
Summary: Even after twenty years in the Gotham City police department and there were some cases that never got easier. It began with an overdose…
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: Criminal Acts  
**Author**: StargazerNataku  
**Rating**: G  
**Genre**: Drama/Mystery  
**Characters**: Batman, Jim Gordon, Detective Stephens, Renee Montoya  
Summary: Even after twenty years in the Gotham City police department and there were some cases that never got easier. It began with an overdose…  
**Warnings**: None

_**Prologue**_

Detective Gerard Stephens studied the scene with the calm detachment that came with twenty-five years in the Gotham City PD and many nights spent at crime scenes just like this one. He noted the bare walls, the room empty save for a small nightstand, well-worn and dusty, and the once white, now dark grey, mattress set directly on the floor. A flash went off, obscuring his vision for a moment as the crime scene photographer got a better angle of the woman lying dead on the dingy bed. Her washed-out blonde hair was matted and tangled on the pillow, her skin was pasty grey, her t-shirt and gym shorts remained slightly damp with sweat despite the winter chill in the poorly heated room. By her side, a small bag lay open, containing what Stephens knew to be meth. No signs of struggle or trauma, just the dead girl and the small bag of drugs that made what had happened readily apparent. There were still tests to do and hoops to jump through to bureaucratically confirm what would be obvious to even a casual observer, and Stephens watched the photographer work, making sure everything was done properly.

When he heard footsteps behind him, Stephens turned his head slightly and spoke quietly to Renee Montoya as she paused in the doorway just behind his left shoulder. "Was the father able to talk?" he asked quietly.

"To an extent. He's the one that found her. Said he didn't have any idea she was using, although I kind of find that hard to believe. In a place like this…" she said quietly. "Who isn't these days?" She studied the scene herself, both detectives moving aside as a technician brushed past them to start his own work, the photographer having finished. "He's got a brother who's going to come, get him out of here. I've got the address; we'll know where to find him. I didn't want to push too hard. Not right now. The man's in shock. Understandably."

"Not at all," Stephens answered, turning back to study the scene, the young woman on the bed. "Particularly when all signs point to an accidental O.D." Montoya nodded. He shook his head slightly, tried not to think that, at seventeen, the dead girl was the same age as his second-oldest son. "We can get more information in the morning when they're done with the scene, but it looks pretty open and shut." He turned and Montoya moved to follow him back into the small, just as grubby living room where a middle aged man was sitting on a sagging orange and brown patterned couch. Stephens walked over to the man, sitting on the couch, and spoke gently. "We'll be in touch, Mr. Broden. I am sorry for your loss."

The man did not move, did not seem to hear, but Stephens was used to such things and moved instead for the door into the hallway, Montoya a pace behind. As they stepped out into the mid-February night, he turned up the collar on his coat against the biting wind, his gaze down at his feet to protect his face and to avoid the patches of ice visible on the poorly cleared street. They crossed to the car in silence, broken only as Stephens opened his car door. "Must be the brother," Montoya commented, and Stephens turned to see the vague outline of a man in the shadows arguing with the cops at the door to the rundown apartment building, digging into his pocket for identification before being allowed to enter.

"Must be," he answered as he got into the car, shutting the door behind him, rubbing his gloveless hands together to warm them. "I need to go back to the precinct. Want me to drop you at home?"

"No," Montoya answered. "I need to stop in myself."

"You sure? It's late." He glanced at the clock as he turned the key in the ignition and the old engine grumbled about starting in the cold before finally choking to life. One thirty-two a.m.

"Yeah, I am."

"All right," he said, putting the car into gear and easing out of the parking spot, turning at the next corner to head back downtown. They were silent as he drove, Montoya staring out the window with her head resting on her clenched fist, her face generally neutral but showing lines of anger around her eyes. Stephens clenched the steering wheel a little more tightly in his hands, understanding the other detective's frustration. Over twenty years in the police department and there were some cases that never got easier; the accidental overdoses—particularly in someone so young- were always a horrible waste of life. He sighed, glanced again at the clock, and changed lanes. "O.D's seem to be happening more often lately," Stephens said. "The stuff they're bringing in must be more potent or something."

"Yeah," Montoya agreed, but did not elaborate and Stephens did not try to force the conversation. He knew every available hand in narcotics was on the case, and there was certainly no need for their input, particularly when his partner did not seem inclined to conversation. It was something he would just have to work through on his own. Stephens already knew he would feel better once he arrived home, hugged his wife, and checked on his boys.

He parked the car and they both walked without a word to the elevator, taking it up to the offices on one of the upper floors. Walking into the dimmed main room, they both noticed the lights still glowing from underneath the door of the commissioner's office.

"He's still here? Jesus," Montoya commented. "I don't think he sleeps."

"I'll see what's up," Stephens said, setting the papers he had in his hand down onto his desk. "See you in the morning."

"Bright and early," Montoya shot back, sitting down at her desk. Stephens nodded, trying not to think about the sleep he would not be getting, and turned to walk to the opposite side of the room, knocking on Jim Gordon's door quietly. A voice bid him enter after a slight pause and Gerry opened the door.

"It's late, Commish," he told the other man. "You planning on getting some sleep tonight?"

Gordon sat back in his chair and pushed his glasses up his nose, noticing they had slipped down as he bent over an open file. "I'm going to catch a few hours," he told Stephens. "Shouldn't you be home doing the same?"

"Montoya and I just finished. Looked like an overdose. We'll know for sure after the autopsy."

Gordon removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "We've had too many of those in the last month," he said. "And everything Narcotics does to stop the dealers from bringing it in only shifts the problem to other parts of the city."

"That really something you can do anything about at…" Stephens checked his watch. "Two o'clock in the morning?"

"No," Jim answered.

"Then seriously, Jim, go home. Another night on your office couch will do you no favors. You have to at some point, and last I checked you haven't in a day or so."

"Gerry…"

"I understand your dedication, but you're no good to anyone exhausted. Come on, commish. Go home." Gordon sighed, glanced down at the papers, and then closed the folder they rested in. Rising to his feet, he pulled on his suit jacket.

"I'm only going if you're on your way too," he informed the other man.

"On my way," Gerry promised. "If I'm not home by 3 Jess'll start to worry."

"Yeah, I know what that's like," Jim said, picking up his car keys and slipping his cell phone into his pocket, ignoring Stephens' slight wince at his words. "Let's head out, if we're going, or it won't be worth it."

"Aye aye, sir," Stephens said, re-buttoning his jacket before they exited Gordon's office and walked together towards the elevator.

Gordon and Stephens parted ways in the basement parking garage, Gordon fumbling in his pockets for his keys as he walked towards his car, pausing outside it as he separated his car key from the rest. Inserting the key into the door lock, Gordon hesitated, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end as he turned the key and unlocked the vehicle. His other hand subtly dropped towards his gun, the feeling of threat and presence growing as he slowly turned. There was no sign of anyone, no readily apparent reason for his unease, until a block of shadows moved and coalesced into the form of a man. Gordon visibly relaxed and his hand fell away from his gun as the now-familiar rasp said his name in greeting.

"Gordon."

"Batman," Gordon said, leaning back against the door of his car, one hand finding his pocket. "I trust this isn't a social call." A folder appeared from underneath the folds of the cape and offered it to the commissioner, who took it.

"Information on possible narcotics shipments," Batman rasped.

"Get anything on the two kids that turned up dead in Crime Alley last night?"

"Gang war. The major three are still fighting for their share, and the lesser gangs are waiting to see who comes out ahead. "

"It's always something. Christ, I'd have thought things would get better with the mob as fractured as it is. But they're still bringing in this stuff, and worse. If it isn't mob activity it's the gangs. The mayor's really busting my chops on it. He's pressing me hard to bring you in too," Gordon said. "Part of his reelection campaign, he's practically calling it Garcia's War on Crime." He glanced back, opening his mouth to continue, and realized he was alone. With a self-depreciating shrug, he got into his car and pulled out of the garage into the silent streets, heading towards home.

As it had been for over a year, the house was empty when he entered it, hanging his coat on the hook behind the front door, tossing his car keys onto the table beside it. Gordon hesitated in the living room, pondering the kitchen for a brief moment before deciding he was not hungry enough to eat. He turned instead to the stairs, climbing them as a man weighted, exhaustion making every step heavy. Once to the top, he passed the empty rooms and entered the master bedroom. There, he changed into the sweats lying on the unmade bed and flipped through the mail he had picked up on his way into the house. There was nothing of interest, save a slightly tattered postcard with a bear on the front postmarked from somewhere he had never heard of in Wisconsin. It caused him to smile, for sure, but he also felt a flash of sadness as he read the note written in Jimmy's rushed handwriting, smiling at Babs' printing joining his son's at the bottom. It brought them closer to him and farther away all at once, and he wished that he had been a better husband, a better father, that he still had a place in his children's lives. In Barbara's life.

Gordon sighed and put the postcard in a prominent place atop his dresser before flipping through the last few pieces of mail. There was nothing there but bills and junk and political campaign leaflets, and Gordon tossed those aside to go through in more detail when he could think straight. Lying down on his side of the bed, he pulled up the blankets and made sure the alarm clock was on. Four hours of sleep was not going to be even close to enough, but he knew it would be better than nothing. He fell asleep quickly and, for once, did not dream.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title**: Criminal Acts  
**Author**: StargazerNataku  
**Rating**: PG  
**Genre**: Drama  
**Characters**: Detective Gerry Stephens, Renee Montoya, Jim Gordon, Batman  
Summary: Even after twenty years in the Gotham City police department and there were some cases that never got easier. It continued with an informant…  
**Warnings**: None

_**Chapter 2**_

Bruce Wayne flinched as the curtains to his penthouse bedroom were thrust open, allowing copious amounts of midday sun to stream in through the floor to ceiling windows, reflecting against the white paint and matching furniture blindingly. "Alfred…" he groaned, turning his face out of the pillow and opening one eye just enough to glare at his butler, who was looking just a little too pleased with himself.

"I'm sorry, Master Bruce," Alfred said, though the smirk hiding in the corner of his eyes showed the amusement he took in waking the younger man that way. "But you do have that meeting with Mr. Fox this afternoon, and if you wish to be there in time…" He moved over to the small breakfast table in front of the windows, chair turned to make the best use of the panoramic view of Gotham's skyline, and busied himself with the tray he had brought. Bruce got out of bed and dropped into pushups. "Besides, nocturnal activities or no, it is later than you usually lie abed and I do have a vested interest in keeping you in one piece."

"As the inheritor, I'd think you'd like to see me go," Bruce teased, falling back on an old familiar joke while switching to sit ups. Alfred moved to make the bed behind him and lay out his suit.

"I would have a very hard time explaining my part as accomplice to your chosen hobby."

"That is true," Bruce commented as he moved to the tray and picked up the cup of coffee Alfred had poured for him in a fine porcelain cup. A single cup of black light roast to start the day right was one of the few luxuries he allowed himself in his stringent diet, and Alfred knew how to brew a perfect cup of coffee. "Perfect as usual," he told Alfred as he scanned the front page of the _Gotham Times_, also set there for his perusal, frowning over one of the articles.

"I thought the headline would interest you, Master Bruce," Alfred commented. "You haven't made the front page in awhile."

"Batman's a wanted criminal, Alfred," Bruce answered. "He shouldn't be in the paper at all, much less on the front page."

"Hard to avoid, when you're putting yourself in the middle of a shootout," Alfred commented.

"It was the best I could do at the time, Alfred. It meant no one was killed."

"And all the better for it, sir. But I am curious as to how long you expect to play the villain."

"As long as necessary," Bruce answered, setting the paper aside. "Forever if I have to." He could feel Alfred's disapproval, but the man changed the subject instead of voicing it.

"You do remember you have the benefit for the Natural History Museum this evening, sir?"

"Yes." He flipped through the sections of the paper until he reached the business pages, pulling them loose and scanning the headlines there as well.

"I'll lay out your tuxedo then."

"Not necessary, Alfred," he said, flipping to the stock pages.

"You're not planning on attending?"

"No," Bruce answered, distractedly taking a sip of his coffee. "There's a large shipment coming in tonight that Gordon's probably going to move on. I need to be there."

"Is that wise, Master Bruce? You know the mayor's pushing the Commissioner just as hard to arrest you as he is to get the drug trade under control."

"I know, Alfred, that's front page news too." He motioned to the table, where the front page lay to the side and the sidebar article which read '_War on Crime! Mayor Garcia promises to slow drug trade, calls for Batman's arrest.'_ "Garcia's a fool if he thinks that Gordon isn't doing all he can, and it's going to catch up with him in the end. There's only so much that can be done through regular channels. Particularly with narcotics."

"And thus it needs to be done outside regular channels."

"Precisely, Alfred."

"Shall I send your regrets to Mr. Madison, then, sir?"

"That won't be necessary, Alfred. He always reminds me when I skip something he's throwing." Bruce smirked. "I think he expects it of me by now. I'll just explain when I see him at the campaign benefit Friday."

"What will your excuse be this time?"

"I'll let you come up with one, Alfred, you do seem to enjoy it."

"Very good, sir. I'll bring the car around for when you're ready."

"Thanks, Alfred," Bruce said, finishing his coffee and moving towards the bathroom to shower. By the time he had finished, dressed, and gone downstairs, Alfred was waiting at the door with an Italian leather briefcase.

"I put in the most recent designs, Master Bruce, including everything that was on your desk in the downstairs office."

"Thank you, Alfred," Bruce said, preceding him out the door. "We'll see how Lucius likes my most recent ideas. He does seem to enjoy aiding and abetting my projects."

"Well, sir," Alfred said as he opened the door to the Rolls Royce, "Neither of us can help ourselves." Bruce laughed and got into the car.

Gordon arrived at the MCU at seven thirty-seven, later than usual because traffic was heavier than most mornings. When he reached his office, his secretary was there already, looking crisp, professional, and perhaps in the most contrast to Gordon, awake. He barely had time to hang up his overcoat before she provided him with a cup of coffee made just as he liked it—a dash of cream and two sugars—with copies of the night shift's reports. He took a sip of the coffee first, leaving the manila folders closed on his desk as he did every morning, deciding that there was at least _something_ good about being the Commissioner. Marge's coffee never made up for the days the world went to hell, or the long nights trying to keep up with the steady stream of violence they have dealt with since the Joker's insanity, but it makes that first moment at his desk bearable and even, if he dared think it, enjoyable. It was only after savoring the richness of that first sip that he opened his eyes and made himself open the file on the top of the stack.

Marge left him alone for the first half hour as usual, then knocked smartly and entered to give him his schedule for the day. She sat, crossing her legs properly at the ankles and, when he shut the folder he was reading, began to list the meetings and commitments on his schedule for the day. "You have lunch with the mayor, today, sir," she told him. "He wants to talk about the proposed budget I put on your desk last week. I highlighted the parts which are pertinent to the department, so there isn't any need for you to read the whole thing. Oh, and at four thirty you have the tuxedo fitting for Mr. Wayne's fundraiser next month. I might remind you that the mayor requested your presence this time quite…adamantly. I sent in the response card in the affirmative two weeks ago."

"Okay," Gordon said.

"Here is the name and address of the shop." She handed him a piece of paper.

"This isn't going to cost me a fortune, is it?" he asked, glancing at it before folding it in half and sticking it in his pocket.

"No, Commissioner. I made sure the rental would be reasonably priced when I made the appointment."

"All right, thank you Marge. The benefit is?"

"Saturday, March twenty-third," she answered. "About a month from now."

"Anything else I need to know?"

"Detective Stephens needed a few minutes of your time."

"Is he here right now?"

"I believe he's out on a case."

"Have him come in when he gets back. I'll just be reviewing the budget, nothing that can't be interrupted."

"Very well, Commissioner. Is there anything else you need from me?"

"No, I'm fine for now, Marge, thank you."

She rose and tucked his scheduling book in the crook of her arm and disappeared quickly. With a sigh, Gordon dug through the haphazard piles of papers on his desk until he found the budget, slightly crumpled and conveniently flagged and highlighted for his perusal. There was that, at least, he decided as he flipped to the first page Marge had marked. She was worth double her weight in gold. Maybe even triple, considering how small she was.

His eyes were nearly crossed when the knock came on the door. Gordon looked up from the papers, finished the note he was making in the margin and called for whoever it was to enter, pushing the stack to the side thankfully. "Mornin' commissioner," Stephens said as he shut the door behind himself. "You look about as tired as I feel."

"Morning comes earlier every day," Gordon commented as Gerry sat in the chair opposite Jim and leaned back comfortably.

"That's age talking, Jim," Stephens told the other man. "We're not twenty and capable of running on four hours of sleep anymore, as Jess reminded me so kindly at breakfast this morning."

"I suppose not," Jim agreed, remembering the mornings he got that same daily reminder at the breakfast table. Now, the only place he got that reminder was from the mirror in his bathroom which, combined with the harsh fluorescent lighting he has not had a chance to change, clearly showed him every wrinkle in his face and emphasized the circles under his eyes. "What do you have for me?"

"Remember that suspected O.D. from last week, the young woman?"

"Remind me," Jim requested.

"Victim was Eira Broden, age seventeen. Found unresponsive by her father, one Richard Broden. Declared DOA by the paramedics. All signs clearly pointed to an overdose of methamphetamines."

"All right, I remember," Jim answered. "What about it?"

"I just got back from meeting with her father," Stephens said. "He wants to make a deal."

"For what? Does he think the death wasn't accidental?"

"That isn't it at all. He wants to turn himself in for dealing, and wants to cop a plea deal with the D.A. From what he made it sound, he wants to turn over everything he knows. Names, dates, everything."

"How much do you think he's got?"

"I did a bit of digging, and I think he's in pretty deep with the mid-levels of what's left of the Chechen's operations. It'll be enough to make the deal worth it. Besides, if the stuff he tells us is true, we can get a bunch of dealers off the street and at least a few shipments."

"True enough," Gordon said. "All right. Let me call the DA's office and see if we can't get someone over here to make the deal before this guy ends up in the river." He dialed the number, then sat back to wait after the secretary put him on hold. As they waited in companionable silence there was another knock on the door and Marge brought in the mail, setting it on his table with a slight incline of her head. "Thanks," he said, flipping through it as he had a brief conversation with one of the assistant D.A's. "Stephens, can you have him come over now?"

"That should be fine." He rose and disappeared out of the room to make his own phone call as Gordon ended his and set the phone back into the cradle. He turned instead to the mail and opened the first envelope, scanned the invitation to another political fundraiser, and tossed it to the side. The second, larger envelope contained another copy of the proposed police department budget with new edits; it joined the invitation to the side to look at when he had a spare minute. The last, a plain white envelope, he opened and from it withdrew a single sheet of paper; reading it he shook his head and gave a little chuckle.

"Something funny, commish?" Stephens asked from the doorway as he slipped his phone back into his pocket.

"Another death threat," he commented, showing Stephens the front of the message, composed of letters clipped from the newspaper and pasted onto a plain sheet of printer paper, wrinkled from the glue. "This author reaches new heights…or lows, more accurately. Can't even spell 'dead' properly."

"How'd he spell it?"

"D-E-D," Jim answered.

"Nice."

"I was wondering if I'd go the week without one. Guess not."

"Well, you know what they say, Jim."

"I know. If you're not getting death threats you're not doing your job. And these nuts," he waved the paper slightly. "Don't worry me nearly as much as the ones who don't inform you of their intentions beforehand."

Stephens inclined his head in agreement, then changed the subject. "Broden's on his way. I'll get it worked out and make arrangements for protective custody."

"All right, Gerry," he said. "Can you send Bair in for this?" he motioned at the letter. "He can get it where it needs to go."

"Sure thing, boss."

"Thanks." Gordon set it carefully to the side and pulled the budget back in front of himself with a sigh, checking the clock to be sure he still had the time before he had to leave to meet the mayor. Contenting himself that he had plenty of time, he pushed his glasses up on his nose and went back to work.


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Criminal Acts (3/18)  
Author: StargazerNataku  
Rating: G  
Genre: Drama  
Characters: Detective Gerry Stephens, Renee Montoya, Jim Gordon, Batman  
Summary: Even after twenty years in the Gotham City police department and there were some cases that never got easier.  
Warnings: None

Jim Gordon watched as the immaculately dressed waiter, complete with pristine white gloves, set the steak down before him on a thin china plate, adorned with dainty garnishes and not containing nearly as much food as a hard-working man would want. He waited as another did the same with the mayor's lunch, and privately decided that if he never had to have one of these fancy lunches again he would be a far happier man. The food was always excellent, but he could not wholly approve of lunches at Gotham's best restaurants on someone else's dime, feeling that such were a waste of taxpayer dollars. He was used to them now, had actually learned some French vocabulary, at least as much as it took to get his steak as he liked it, and actually enjoys the food for what it is. It was especially nice when he considered that when he took the Commissioner's job everyone was predicting he would not live long enough to become used to the job or experience its perks.

Gordon accepted a refill on his cup of coffee, then cut off a piece of his steak and took a bite, his attention split between the tender morsel and the mayor, who renewed their conversation after a bite of his own meal. "I am glad we had this chance to work everything out," Garcia told him. "I will see what I can do about reallocating some funds towards these new bulletproof vests, but I'm just not sure it'll be in the budget this year, at least for the majority of the department. We may be able to purchase some, of course. I can try to work it out."

"Thank you," Gordon responded outwardly, while inwardly he cursed the beancounters who put the budget over his peoples' lives. He knew full well the Mayor would barely try to get it into the budget; it would wait for another year while his people faced Gotham's dangerous streets without enough funding or equipment.

"The new equipment for the crime lab will have to wait, unfortunately," Garcia continued, his words coming as no surprise to Gordon. "But your partnership with the labs over at Wayne Enterprises for anything we can't manage is working out all right, yes?"

"In a manner of speaking," Gordon answered.

"What is the problem? Mr. Fox made it sound like a match made in heaven when I spoke to him."

Gordon doubted that Lucius Fox, who he had met a few times offhand, had really done so, but he ignored the mayor's exaggeration and replied. "It would be faster if we did not have to go through outside sources, and the D.A. thinks it may allow a future defendant to challenge whether evidence is admissible."

"I see," Garcia said. "Well, I'm afraid the city just doesn't have the money for it this year, Gordon. Perhaps…"

"Perhaps someone will come along and make it happen?" asked a lazy drawl from behind where Gordon was standing. The mayor was on his feet in an instant, and Gordon rose as well, taking his cue as Mayor Garcia stepped around the table and extended his hand. He turned, his gaze falling on the young man in a spotless suit, his hair fashionably slicked back, his hands manicured without a cuticle out of place.

"Mr. Wayne, always a pleasure," the Mayor said as the two men shook hands. "You know Commissioner Gordon, I think?"

"Commissioner," Wayne said with a broad, empty smile, shaking Jim's hand.

"Mr. Wayne," Jim answered.

"Now what is this you were saying?" Bruce Wayne asked, turning back to the Mayor.

"We were discussing the police department's part of the city budget, Mr. Wayne," Garcia answered. "And the police department's relationship with Wayne Enterprises."

"Yes, I think I heard a little about that," Wayne said, pulling a chair over from the next table and dropping into it. The Mayor sat, almost on the edge of his seat, and Gordon did the same. "Is the affiliation not to your liking, Commissioner?"

Jim bristled a little, but forced himself to speak calmly, knowing Garcia was hanging onto and judging his every word. Christ, he hated playing politics. "Not at all, Mr. Wayne. I'm thankful for the opportunity."

"Then _what_ is the problem?" Wayne asked lazily, leaning back in his chair as though he was sitting poolside in Tahiti instead of in one of Gotham City's most prestigious restaurants.

"Jim was merely informing me that it would be faster if the police department were able to do their own work, instead of having to contract it out," Garcia explained. "And that the evidence would be more airtight at trial."

"Well that's important isn't it?" Wayne asked in the tone of a man looking for a necessary clarification.

"Very important, Mr. Wayne," Garcia answered patiently.

"Well then, let's see what we can do about it." He withdrew a cell phone from his pocket and pressed a series of buttons. Garcia gave Gordon a vaguely triumphant, vaguely disbelieving glance, then set his mind to eating as though he was completely uninterested in the phone conversation just starting beside him. Gordon went back to his steak as well, inwardly shaking his head, though he knew he would not complain about the source if the department got what it needed.

"Lucius!" Wayne was saying. "Well, I am very well, and you…yes of course. Say, I'm sitting here with the Mayor and Commissioner Gordon, and they had a fabulous idea…well indirectly…They said it would be faster if the police could do it themselves…it would? Indeed…" There was a long pause then, Fox's voice barely audible, but Jim imagined the man sitting at his desk and patiently explaining something to his simple-minded boss. "Well, that sounds great. Why don't you get in contact with the commissioner and we can get them what they need? Of course. All right, Lucius, I'll do that. You too." He hung up, and turned to Gordon with a beaming smile. "Finished," he said. "You just tell Lucius what you need and we'll see what we can do."

"Mr. Wayne…" the Commissioner said, and Wayne waved his hand to dismiss the commissioner's protests at the same time Garcia was giving him a look that could kill from across the table.

"Now now, won't hear of it. Lucius said it'll be good for us too. Something about taxes and sales to other police departments…too technical for me, for sure, but that's why he's in charge. So I don't have to be." Wayne grinned. "Better things to do with life, aren't there, commissioner?"

"Yes, indeed, Mr. Wayne," Gordon agreed. "You have my thanks."

"Nonsense, nonsense. It's you that should be thanked, Commissioner." He gave an easy, playboy grin. "You do more with yourself than I ever well, right?" He winked. "But we can't all be crusaders for justice. Some of us have to be the lilies of the field, as Alfred always says." Wayne rose and turned to Garcia with another grin. "Mayor, I'll see you on Friday, right? This one's your fundraiser, yes?"

"Yes it is, Mr. Wayne. And thank you." Wayne turned to Gordon who also stood.

"Commissioner, I will see you soon. You coming on Friday?"

"No, Mr. Wayne, I am not."

"A pity. Well, I know for a fact Alfred's got your card for my benefit in a few weeks. You will make it, won't you?"

"If it's in my power, Mr. Wayne."

"Excellent!" Wayne shook his hand, then turned to the waiter who had come up to the table. "This lunch's on me, Laurent."

"Of course, Mr. Wayne," the waiter answered despite the mayor's protests.

"Nonsense," Wayne said. "My restaurant, my rules." He smiled. "I'd best go, Jennifer seems to be getting impatient, and we all know what a pain impatient women are." He motioned to a leggy, rather buxom blonde sitting at a table in a private corner. "Excuse me, gentlemen," he said, and walked away towards her.

"Well," Garcia commented. "That solved the problem."

"Yes, I suppose so," Gordon responded, and they ate in silence for a moment, their minds elsewhere. Watching Wayne sit next to the woman in the corner, he gave a slight frown, his detective's mind clicking into gear as he pondered what had just happened. Bruce Wayne was a notorious playboy and, if Gordon did not mind being uncharitable, had the reputation of being somewhat of an airhead. There were those who said the only reason he'd lived this long was a combination of dumb luck and his butler, who managed the man's life to each minute detail.

Gordon had a hard time believing anyone was that stupid, particularly when they invited themselves into conversations and proceeded to promise hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of necessary equipment to a police force in need of it. But then again, he supposed everyone got lucky every now and again.

"There was something else I wanted to mention," Garcia commented non-chalantly, interrupting Gordon's train of thought. The commissioner again focused on the mayor. "I've been hearing rumors, and I need to make sure there's no truth behind them."

"About?" Gordon asked.

"There are those," Garcia said. "That don't think the Gotham Police Department is trying very hard to find that masked vigilante."

"You mean the Batman."

"Yes, Gordon. The Batman."

"Policy is, and always has been, to arrest him on sight."

"Yes, Gordon, I know. But we've both been in Gotham long enough to know that sometimes official policy means jack shit. I don't know the truth of what's going on. I don't want to. But I've made promises to the people of this city that we're going to get him off the streets, and I meant them. And the longer I go without delivering, the worse it gets for me. I want to see some progress on this, or there will have to be consequences. And neither of us want that. Is that clear?"

"As crystal," Gordon responded.

"Good." The mayor took the last bite of his pasta. "I don't want it to end that way, commissioner. You've been good for this city, and I want you in your job. But I also need results."

"Of course," Jim agreed, promising himself that the mayor would not get them. "I'll turn up the heat as best I can."

"Thank you," Garcia said, as both men rose. "I should get back to City Hall." He extended his hand and shook Gordon's. "Thanks for taking the time to meet with me today. I'll do what I can with this." He motioned with the papers in his hand. "And you can talk to Fox for the rest, apparently."

"Thank you," Gordon said, following the mayor out the door to where the valet had already pulled up his car. He tipped the man, trying to ignore the headache forming behind his temples that political meetings always seemed to cause for him. Getting into the car, he sighed, then pulled into traffic, heading back to the MCU to face the stack of paperwork waiting for him.


	4. Chapter 4

Title: Criminal Acts (4/18)  
Author: StargazerNataku  
Rating: PG  
Genre: Drama/Mystery  
Characters: Detective Gerry Stephens, Renee Montoya, Jim Gordon, Batman  
Summary: Even after twenty years in the Gotham City police department and there were some cases that never got easier. It began with an overdose…  
Warnings:

Jim Gordon walked into his office and tossed his keys onto his desk, hanging his coat up on the hook on the wall. Another moment allowed him to cross the room and throw himself into his desk chair which creaked much like his back did as he leaned back and closed his eyes, ignoring the clock that showed 12:04 am. It had been a ridiculously long week, starting with his lunch with Garcia and the budget work, followed by several junkies and dealers found murdered in and around Crime Alley, and capped off by a six hour hostage-crisis after a would-be armed robber took twenty patrons and tellers captive at Gotham Central Bank. And now it was late Friday night, no early Saturday morning, and Gordon was exhausted, every muscle in his body aching with the stress of the week. He sighed, trying to find the energy to finish one or two last minute, small tasks, but found himself incapable of moving. Once he was, Gordon decided, he was going home and to hell with anything else. He would come in tomorrow and get everything done then.

He almost groaned at the knock on his half open door. He opened his eyes, his gaze falling on Gerry Stephens, standing in his door with a mixture of reluctance, anger, and resignation on his face. "Gerry," Gordon said, his voice tired and, he realized, old-sounding. "I have had my fill of bad news and shit situations for the week, so unless it's something that I either can or have to do something about, I don't want to know."

"Believe me," Gerry said, coming into the office and tossing himself into the chair opposite Gordon's. "I didn't want to know either. But it's something we need to manage."

"It usually is," Gordon said with a sigh. "What is it?"

"Broden's dead."

It took a long moment for Gordon's tired mind tried to figure out what Stephens was talking about. "The informant?" he asked.

"Yes."

"What?" Gordon demanded, sitting up straight, suddenly awake. "He was in protective custody."

"Yes, sir, he was, for all the good it did."

"What happened?"

"Death by typo, I believe Warden Bradbury called it. They got the wrong prisoner number on a set of paperwork. They were transferring him to another cell block, as the orders requested, at the same time members of the general population were being escorted back to their cells. When several other inmates recognized him, they went ballistic. Overcame Broden's guards, one of whom is dead, took the dead guard's weapon, and shot Broden in the temple. Twice."

"Christ," Gordon cursed, rubbing his face with the palm of his hand. "Bradbury's investigating?"

"He is, but you know this city, commish. No matter how far we've come, there are still people who can be bought off. Someone'll get disciplined, but there'll be no way to prove it was done with malicious intent. Hell, it may very well not have been. That's always been the trouble with Gotham. Can't prove it either way."

"And we lose a man who it was our responsibility to protect, plus the key witness in multiple trials."

"Essentially."

Gordon's head was now pounding, and he rubbed his temples tiredly. "There's nothing we can do tonight," he finally said, feeling the weight of personal responsibility falling squarely on his shoulders, now noting the calls he had missed on his cell phone while helping resolve the hostage situation. "It's too late to return phone calls, and what's done is done."

"Jim," Stephens said. "You look terrible." He stood. "Get your coat, I'm taking you home."

"I need…"

"Now, Jim," Stephens interrupted. Gordon met the other detective's eyes and held them for a long moment. He finally sighed and rose.

"All right. But I can drive myself."

"I'm sure you can, but you're not going to. You can call a squad to pick you up in the morning. Hell, I can pick you up."

"You're on tomorrow?"

"Start at noon, technically," Gerry said as they moved through the empty bullpen. "Aiming to be in about eleven. I'll pick you up on the way in."

Gordon nodded, and together they entered the basement parking garage. They were silent as they got into Stephens' car, and started making their way uptown through mostly deserted streets. Gordon leaned back against the headrest and shut his eyes, trying to force away the stress that had knotted his back and made his temples throb. "Gerry?" he finally asked, as Stephens turned onto Gordon's street.

"Yeah, Jim?"

"Was there anything else we could have done to avoid this?"

Stephens was quiet, pondering the question as he pulled over at the curb. "There are always things we could have done to better control the situation, Jim," he finally said. "I'm not sure what they are tonight, for sure, but I do know this. We didn't make him deal and we didn't make him turn snitch either."

"No, we didn't," Gordon finally said in answer, opening his eyes. "Thanks Gerry." He undid his seatbelt and opened the car door, stepping out into the brisk night air.

"I'll be back about ten-thirty tomorrow morning, all right, Jim?" The commissioner inclined his head. They wished each other goodnight and Gordon turned away from the vehicle, putting all of his effort into putting one foot in front of the other as he crossed the small lawn and went up the front porch stairs. He grabbed the mail and tossed it onto the couch without looking at it, going instead to the kitchen where he turned the light on and pulled a clean tumbler out of the dish rack in the sink. He glanced at the refrigerator before bending down to retrieve the bottle of whiskey he stored in the lower cupboard. As he leaned over, however, there was the sound of glass shattering as the window above the sink exploded inward. Gordon hit the floor instinctually, his hands moving automatically to cover his head as shards of glass rained down upon him. His hand then went instantly to the gun in the holster at his side as he glanced upward, first to the window, then to the opposite wall. It was scarred now with two deep indentations he recognized as bullet holes, causing his heart to pound with how close he had come to potentially lethal injuries. He did not give himself time to think about that; he was in motion almost immediately, crawling through the kitchen and the living room, his heart pounding in his chest.

Wide awake with adrenaline, intuition sent him quickly up the stairs and into his bedroom where he knelt behind the cover of the bed, gun in one hand and trained on the doorway, cell phone in the other as he dialed 9-1-1.

Forcing his breathing to steady, Gordon listened for the sound of anyone entering the house as he quickly relayed to the dispatcher what had happened, his gun clenched in a sweaty palm, his heart pounding in his chest. His ears strained into the darkness, listening for the slightest sound, but heard none, no tell-tale sound of glass breaking or a door being kicked in, not even the creaks of weight falling onto the old staircase that Gordon knew intimately. Nothing except the pounding of his heart and, in the distance, sirens.

All the same, he did not relax until he heard his officers clearly identifying themselves as they pounded on the door. He moved slowly into the hallway, gun at the ready, moving down the stairs steadily to open the front door and let two patrolmen in as a few more squads pulled up to the curb. "You all right, Commissioner?" the officer asked.

"Thankfully," Gordon answered, stepping aside. Both men came in, completing a quick search of the house to be sure it was empty as other officers began a search of the neighborhood just as a car Gordon recognized as Montoya's pulled up to the curb.

"I'm fine, Renee," he said preemptively as she came striding into the room, Harvey Bullock a step behind.

"Like hell," she responded, glaring at him. "Mind telling me what happened?"

"As it's your job to ask," Gordon said, "I imagine I wouldn't."

"Cute," she told him. "Real cute."

"It's simple, Renee. Stephens dropped me off, and when I came in I went to the kitchen to get a drink. Seconds after I started bending over to get the whiskey out of the lower cabinet, the window exploded and I hit the deck. I stayed low, got upstairs, and called it in."

"So, who'd you piss off lately?" she demanded.

"Isn't the right question who _haven't_ I pissed off since taking this job?" Gordon asked tiredly. "You know that as well as I do, Montoya."

"I do," she answered, jotting down some notes before looking back up at him. "You look like death warmed over."

"Thank you, I appreciate the compliment," he said dryly, the weight of exhaustion again settling over him.

"I already called Stephens. He wanted to come over, but I told him that Bullock and I were still at the office. He's getting their guest room ready for you instead. We've two units scouting the neighborhood, and there'll be a unit posted outside their house. Come on, I'm taking you over there. Bullock'll finish up here."

"Renee…"

"No buts, Commish. It's already arranged. Go get your things together."

Gordon pondered arguing but decided against it, knowing it would do him no good and that he would not sleep with investigators going over his kitchen. Instead he rose, went upstairs, and grabbed a change of clothes from the closet before throwing his toothbrush and a few other toiletries into a plastic bag. When he came downstairs, Montoya was waiting at the door, shoving a SWAT helmet and a bulletproof vest at him. "Is that really necessary?" he asked.

"Considering the circumstances, yes," she informed him. Again, he decided it was easier not to argue and put both on. Only when that was done did Montoya swing open the door and go out, Gordon a pace behind. Neither spoke on the short drive to the Stephens' home, Montoya deep in her own thoughts, while Gordon tried not to think about how close he had come to a far different ending. He remembered Barbara's harsh, accusatory words during one of their last arguments. _This city's going to be the death of you, Jim, and here you are, digging the grave she'll throw you into without a damned care that it's your own!_

Gordon sighed. "Do you ever wish it was easy, Renee?" he asked.

"Easy? Gotham? Never going to happen, Commish."

"I know. That's not what I asked." She pulled into the Stephens' driveway, and glanced up to where Gerry was already opening the door.

"Sure I wish it was easy. I also wish you'd have more sense so you'd avoid getting this close to having your head blown off." She looked at him, her eyes hard. "We've come too far to let Gotham go back to the way it was, and it's already halfway backwards. You're the first good thing to happen to this department since I was a rookie, and I'll be damned if I let you get yourself killed. Now go in and get some sleep. You look like shit."

"You always know what to say to make a man feel better, Montoya," Gordon said as he undid his seatbelt, and despite his dry tone he meant it. "I'll see you in the morning."

"If I see you before you've gotten at least eight hours of sleep, I'm going to kick your ass, commissioner or no, sir."

"I'd have to fire you."

"I'd chance it. Now out." He gave her a mock salute and exited the car, grabbing the small bag from the backseat and going up the stairs to where Stephens was already holding open the door. He tossed a wave back at Montoya before together they went in and shut the door.


	5. Chapter 5

**Title**: Criminal Acts (5/18)

**Author**: StargazerNataku  
**Rating**: PG  
**Genre**: Drama  
**Characters**: Detective Gerry Stephens, Renee Montoya, Jim Gordon, Batman  
Summary: Even after twenty years in the Gotham City police department and there were some cases that never got easier. It began with an overdose…

_**Chapter 5**_

It had been another long day. By the time he had settled himself into bed the night before, it had been after three, and sleep had only come as the sun was rising, light shining softly through the curtains of the Stephens' oldest son's bedroom. He had managed only three hours of sleep before rising again and returning downtown. Then, by necessity he had spent the day dealing with the fallout of Broden's murder, having run a press conference and met with the warden of Blackgate and the mayor. It had been beyond stressful to be caught in between the two; both were angry and unafraid to show it, leaving Gordon in the middle of what he thought sounded like two siblings fighting over a favorite toy. It was especially trying for Gordon, as this was not just a political problem in his mind. A man had been killed on his watch and under his department's promise of protection; while the fault was not entirely theirs the responsibility certainly was. It had kept him stonily silent, aware that if he tried to speak he would undoubtedly burn more bridges than he cared to, particularly since this was an election year for Mayor Garcia and Bradbury did not like him. He had been thankful when the meeting had finally ended, and returned to his office in the MCU and gotten through some work, both new and old, sitting on his desk.

For the last half hour, however, Gordon had been sitting, folders all closed on the table, studying the fishtank across from his desk, watching the small creatures swim in lazy circles, deep in thought. His mind replayed the entire night before, the long hours of stakeout and the news of Broden's death, the moments of fear as the window shattered above his head, the realization that he was very lucky to be alive. He scanned over the names on the files, the reports from his officers, all the information he was using to try to defend the people under his protection spread haphazardly across his desk. His gaze caught on a folder, tucked discreetly underneath the others, a thin folder with only a few pieces of paper and no labels, no trace of handwriting that could be analyzed and traced back to a person whose face he had never seen. He pulled it loose, flipping through the pages within as his thoughts strayed to the vigilante who had chosen Gordon as the one man who could help in his crusade. The man who had sacrificed everything in order to save the city from a truth it could not face, a truth that could ruin Gordon if it ever came to light. He frowned slightly as he struggled inwardly, his thoughts conflicted as he thought of the lie, of Batman's sacrifice and the safety in the fact no one else knew of their deception.

He was jolted from his reverie by the sound of Stephens' voice in the bullpen and Montoya's sharp retort. He looked up, and in a brief moment his decision was made. Gordon rose to his feet and went to the door of his office, opening it and taking a half step out into the bullpen. "Stephens," he said. "Montoya. I want to talk to both of you." He heard them both rise and, satisfied, he returned to his desk. Montoya entered first, Stephens right behind. "Close the door, will you, Gerry?" Jim directed. The other man did as requested as Montoya sat. When Gerry had seated himself beside her, Jim leaned forward in his chair and, steepling his fingers before him, rested his elbows on the table.

"I know I can trust you both implicitly," Gordon told them, cutting right to the chase. "What I am about to tell you is to go no further than the three of us, that needs to be completely clear before I say anything more."

"Of course, commish," Stephens answered.

"Not a word," Montoya agreed.

"Neither of you are stupid, in fact I know you both already suspect a good deal, but there's more truth to what you suspect than you realize." He cleared his throat. "Batman is not and never has been a murderer. Or a kidnapper," he added pointedly. "He took both accusations upon himself to hide the truth, to avoid everything we worked for coming undone."

"There were bodies, commish," Montoya said. "You can't tell me those five people killed themselves."

"There were bodies, yes," Gordon said. "But Batman did not kill them." He took a deep breath, and then dropped the bombshell. "Harvey Dent did."

"Commissioner," Montoya protested immediately. "That is the stupidest…craziest thing I have ever heard. Dent? All American poster boy Harvey Dent."

"Yes," Gordon said, and explained briefly to his detectives what had happened and why the lie had been necessary, sending both Montoya and Stephens deep into thought. "He was insane. Scarred and grieving and completely mad."

"You have to be kidding me," Montoya finally said. "What kind of self-sacrificing, _masochistic_…is _Batman_ insane too?" Jim Gordon had asked himself that question more times than he could count, and always he came to the same answer.

"No, Montoya, he isn't. Acts it sometimes, but…he is one of the sanest men I know."

"He says about the man who jumps off buildings dressed like a giant bat," Montoya commented to Stephens. "Why are you telling us this, Commish? Does _he _know you are?"

"No, he does not," Gordon answered. "But…after what happened last night, I realized someone else needs to know. I don't want… someone else needs to know the truth. Just in case."

"And he's going to be okay with this?" she asked.

"He's going to have to be. It's done now, isn't it? It's not like I told you his secret identity or anything."

"Y…you know who he _is_?" Montoya demanded in shock. Jim smirked.

"No, I don't, actually." She slumped back in her chair with a groan. "That was for threatening to hit me last night, Montoya," he informed her. "Now, unless you have any questions, I think we all have better stuff to be doing."

"Sure thing, boss," Montoya said. He looked to Stephens.

"All right, Gerry?"

"Yes, commissioner," he answered, and Montoya got to her feet and, mumbling an excuse about paperwork, left the room, and closed the door behind her. Jim leaned back in his chair and the two men studied each other in silence for a long moment. "Why didn't you tell us before?" Stephens finally asked.

"It wasn't my secret to tell."

"And now it is."

"It probably still isn't," Gordon said. "But someone needed to know. I'm sorry to put this weight on your shoulders, Gerry. I am, because I know it's not an easy weight to carry. But I needed to know that I could trust those I told beyond a shadow of a doubt. You and I go way back, and I know that I can trust you not only to stay silent, but that I can trust you to always do the right thing."

They were quiet for a long time, staring at each other, before Stephens broke the silence. "Just so long as _you're_ the one to tell the Bat."

"I will be," Gordon reassured him. "Hopefully soon. That is assuming, of course, that he doesn't know already." At Stephens' confused look Gordon chuckled. "I wouldn't be surprised if he had the room bugged," he informed the other detective.

"And…and you accept that?" Stephens asked, looking at Gordon like he were the crazy one.

"Well, I don't have a floodlight anymore to let him know I need his attention, so I have to make do with what I have."

"I'm starting to wonder if _you're_ insane," Gerry commented, getting to his feet. "Do you want to stay with Jess and me again tonight?"

"I have to go home sometime," Gordon said.

"What you've gotta do is sell that place and move somewhere safer."

"Probably," Gordon agreed. "But for now, I'll be all right. I have a late meeting tonight anyway, and I don't want to wake you up in the middle of the night again."

"Late meeting, huh?" Stephens said. "Well, give them my regards."

"I will," Jim said, following the detective to the door of his office.

"Look, Jim," Gerry said as his hand went to the doorknob. "It's not that I don't trust you, I just…I don't know what to feel about the Bat, never have. I just…I don't know."

"I know, Gerry, and I understand. That's one of the reasons I thought you should be told. You'll always question and you won't let him get away with anything." Stephens accepted that with a nod.

"All right. I'll see you Monday, commish."

"Of course, and thank you." Stephens nodded and left the office. Jim shut the door behind him and went back to his desk, glancing at his watch. Seven-thirty. Several more hours yet before Batman could be reasonably depended on to show, so Gordon picked up a few of the casefiles on his desk and went back to work.

Gordon stood on the roof, looking out over the city as he waited patiently. There was still a chill in the mid-spring air, and he shifted so his back was to the wind, studying the buildings and hearing the roar of the traffic far below. He sensed rather than saw the Bat's arrival and turned, his feet crunching in the remnants of the shattered glass of the floodlight, and found the man he had waited for standing several feet from him. "Busy week," he commented.

"Yes."

"Got word just before I came up here. A few beat cops found two more dealers dead off Crime Alley. Same M.O. as the six previous. Shot execution style, back of the head, robbed. I'd be willing to bet it's the same caliber weapon as before, though we won't know that for certain until the autopsies. So far no fingerprints or weapon, as before. I'm more convinced than ever we've got ourselves a new serial killer. Last thing we need, really."

"Here." Batman drew an envelope from the folds of his cape, and Gordon took it. "Found the same bootprint at three of the scenes. And at your house."

"My house?" Gordon asked.

"From last night. Caliber matches, doesn't it."

"Yes," Gordon admitted. Batman's silence said everything his voice did not. "My people are doing everything they can to get to the bottom of this," Gordon told the other man. "And I'm not staying at home for a few days. We'll see if we can't get this guy." More silence, though Jim could still sense Batman there, lurking behind. He hesitated. "I told Stephens," he finally said. "And Montoya." There was another long silence, and Gordon felt as though the temperature had dropped twenty degrees. "Someone else needed to know, Batman. If anything happens to me…someone needs to know. I trust them as much as I trust you, and I know they will not betray that."

"You knew that about Wuertz and Ramirez too," Batman said, his voice cold and radiating disapproval.

"I know I was wrong before," Gordon said, "And I've well paid for it, I promise you. So did Dent. I'll always regret it, and I'll always deserve a fair share of the blame for it." He thought of Rachel Dawes, dead on his watch, and Harvey's quest to murder all those responsible, to make them suffer as badly as he suffered. He thought of Batman's lost reputation, his self-imposed martyrdom, and how the man must be—he assumed, anyway, since he would never know for certain—suffering for it. He thought of coming home to his empty house, divorce papers on the table with a note from Barbara asking him not to contest. "But in this case, I know for a fact they will keep my trust. I've known Gerry Stephens for almost twenty years. We walked the beat together, and we've been through a lot of things where the chips were down and you get to see who a person really is. I trust Gerry more than I trust nearly anyone else, and he will not let me down."

"And Montoya?" Gordon actually had to laugh.

"What you see is what you get, Batman. She's no-nonsense, tough as nails, and does the right thing no matter what. She's caught a lot of flak for that over the years, I'm sure you know that as well as I do. But they're my two best people, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that they can be trusted with this. He turned to the masked vigilante with a wry smile. "And I know you know that too. I've never seen them, but I'd stake my job and my reputation on the fact that you have one of these…" he held up the file. "For every single one of my people. And for me." Batman's silence told Gordon as much as he needed to know. "Thought so," he commented with a wry smile. "It goes no farther, I promise. But just like you thought the lie was for the best in the first place, I think this is the best now."

"It's too much a risk for you, Gordon," Batman growled. "If it came out you willingly lied to make those convictions stick…"

"I'll lose my job for certain, and I'll be facing jail time in the best of scenarios," Gordon said calmly. "I've had to accept that." He studied the vigilante's face as best he could in the shadowy darkness. "You became the villain, and I'm your accomplice. There'll be no arguing that I was mistaken, if the truth ever came out."

"Gordon…"

"It's too late for you to have second thoughts, Batman. I did as you asked because we both know it was the best thing to do for Gotham. You know I am willing to sacrifice my life for Gotham, in any form. I accept this falling on me if it does come to light. It's a sacrifice I'm willing to make if I must, and some days almost wish for it because then you'd be free to continue doing what needs to be done in a capacity that I cannot hope to match."

"Gordon…"

"Stop arguing with me, Batman. What's done is done, and I can't take it back. You're just going to have to trust my judgment on this one. I won't have you facing this war by yourself if, God forbid, anything happened to me. We're partners, we should look after each other." Silence stretched unbroken between the two men for a long moment before Batman spoke, changing the subject in a tacit acceptance of Gordon's words.

"You're not going home tonight." It was not a question.

"No, I'm not chancing it. The last thing I need is to make it easy for them to make a second attempt." Another half-nod in the shadows, then an impression of a slight movement, and Gordon knew he was alone again. He gave a slight, wry smile, when he realized that they had actually had what could be considered a real conversation. And he, Jim Gordon, had gotten the last word. Somewhat pleased with himself, Gordon turned to cross the roof towards the access door, rubbing his hands together to warm them.


	6. Chapter 6

**Title**: Criminal Acts (6/18)  
**Author**: StargazerNataku  
**Rating**: PG  
**Genre**: Drama  
**Characters**: Detective Gerry Stephens, Renee Montoya, Jim Gordon, Batman  
Summary: Even after twenty years in the Gotham City police department and there were some cases that never got easier. It began with an overdose…and continued with a fundraiser.

_**Chapter 6**_

Jim Gordon studied the gourmet hors d'oeuvres from the tray the waiter offered him, choosing one that looked semi-edible to a meat and potatoes sort of man. He pondered it briefly, wondering what it was and coming up with no answer. With a mental shrug he popped it into his mouth, barely avoiding a look of utter disgust that threatened with the flavor. He swallowed painfully, secretly wishing that the glass of champagne in his hand was a cold beer and the rented tuxedo he was wearing was the GCPD sweats he kept around his new apartment to wear off-duty. He discreetly checked his watch, feeling himself internally counting the seconds one by one. It would be another hour at least before he could politely leave. He still had little idea why he had even been invited. Creative torture technique by the mayor perhaps? After all, Garcia had to know when he had promoted Gordon that he had no place in or patience for politics, unlike Commissioner Loeb, who had thrived at this sort of get-together.

Personally, Gordon hated small talk. He strongly disliked the sort of people now surrounding him, laughing at nothing and pretending the important problems facing Gotham did not exist in a concrete way. Raising funds for a new series of homeless shelters downtown was no more than an excuse to show off their vast wealth and drink fancy champagne in new dresses and suits from Paris and Milan. So far, he had avoided speaking to most of the attendees, despite the irritated glances that Garcia was continuing to give him, and he congratulated himself for that small accomplishment, turning away a waiter who brought past another tray of dainty appetizers. Congratulations proved to have been given too early, however. He bit back a wince at the pleasant but unconcerned voice which interrupted his musings. "Enjoying yourself, Commissioner Gordon?" He turned to find Bruce Wayne standing there with his champagne glass in one hand, the other in his pocket, smiling like this was the best party he ever attended, completely at ease. Gordon studied the billionaire for a moment, the worst of the worst of all the rich in the room, at least to all appearances. Shallow, unconcerned, and self-absorbed, the man practically radiated ignorant complaisance, despite the fact that he was the one who had sponsored the fundraiser personally.

Gordon wondered offhandly whether anyone could be as shallow as Wayne made himself out to be, or if it was some form of elaborate sham for some purpose Gordon could not even begin to fathom. Particularly since the meeting at the restaurant, he wondered more and more if Wayne was playing a part he wanted Gotham to see. Gordon was not sure, though; he had only met the man in person a few times, but he did remember the boy from years before, a chance meeting that Gordon wondered if Wayne even remembered. Gordon knew it was something that he, personally, would never forget. He had nightmares about the trapped, terrified look on the kid's face for months. Still did, occasionally, if he wanted to be truthful.

Wayne was expecting an answer, and talking about childhood trauma was not the best conversation for any time, much less a soirée peopled by the Who's Who list of Gotham. Gordon wondered what the Prince of Gotham would do if he said no in response to Wayne's question only briefly before answering. "It's good to have a night off," Gordon settled on, which was the truth, ignoring the desire to inform Wayne that this was not a night off. Wayne smiled brilliantly.

"I can imagine," the man said. "But you're all alone, a handsome man like you! No date tonight?"

"No," Gordon answered.

"There's plenty of unattached women here, if you'd like. Just say the word, Commissioner, I can find you one."

"No thanks," Gordon answered. He would not tell Wayne of the divorce, but it was entirely too soon to date, and Gordon was sure dating was not what Wayne had in mind anyway. Bruce Wayne did not date.

"More for me, I suppose, then," Bruce said, scanning the room, probably for prospects. Gordon knew that Wayne did not have to worry about finding one either, with the way most of the women in the room watched him. Not like a divorced, almost-fifty police commissioner with a few extra pounds in places and a target painted on his chest.

"I suppose so, Mr. Wayne."

"Bruce, Commissioner," Wayne told him with that same million-watt smile.

"Then it's Jim or Gordon, Mr. Wayne." Wayne laughed.

"Of course, Jim," he said easily, giving a second glance to one of the young women trying to meet his gaze. "What do you think?"

"Besides that I'm old enough to be her father?" Gordon asked. Wayne laughed again.

"Besides that."

"I think she really wants to talk to you. Don't let me keep you." Wayne smiled at him and offered a hand.

"It was good to see you."

"Mr. Wayne." He shook the man's hand and inclined his head, then watched as Wayne turned to move toward the pretty young brunette. With a sigh, Jim Gordon glanced at his watch and tried to decide if it was all right to leave, wondering if the fact the party's host had forgotten you meant you were free to do so. He was saved from having to make that decision by his cell phone vibrating in his pocket.

Drawing it from the depths of his dress pants, he glanced at the screen to read the caller I.D. before answering, frowning when Stephens' phone number blinked onto the screen, knowing that if Stephens was calling tonight there was something very wrong. "Gordon," he said quietly as he answered the phone, moving towards the hallway where the coat check was, hoping to be able to hear the man better there without the noise of the party.

"Commissioner…" Stephens' voice, strained and troubled, came plainly across the phone, and Gordon shut his eyes and did not speak for a moment, wondering what could bring that rare amount of emotion into the usually calm detective's voice.

"What happened?" he forced himself to ask.

"Jim…Jackson, Bair, and Morales are dead and Montoya's in the hospital. She was shot, but before you panic on her account, it's not life-threatening."

"Christ," Gordon swore. "Where are you?"

"Findley's," Stephens answered, naming the diner where many of the MCU's officers stopped on their breaks or after their shifts ended.

"You can explain when I get there," Gordon said, heading for the coat check and digging the claim ticket out of his pocket. He hung up the phone and shoved the ticket at the young woman manning the counter, silently cursing every second that passed while he stood and waited.

"Commissioner," Mayor Garcia said from behind him. "You aren't leaving already, are you?" His voice showed irritation couched behind pleasantries, and Gordon had to bite back a sharp retort, instead taking a deep breath before he turned to speak.

"Something came up," he said to the mayor, who frowned.

"Surely your men are good enough to manage without you for one evening?" he suggested, and Gordon clenched a fist against the sudden rise of anger.

"I'm not going to spend any more of the evening scoring political points when three of my people are on their way to the morgue and another's in the hospital," he told Garcia. "Fire me for it tomorrow if you want, but tonight I know where I need to be, and it isn't here." He shoved his arm into the sleeve of his coat, turning to stride towards the door.

"Gordon." He stopped and took a deep breath, keeping his mouth firmly closed. "What happened?" Actual concern in the mayor's voice did nothing to relieve Gordon's black mood.

"I'm going down there to find out," he said, yanking his coat up over his shoulders.

"Good luck." Gordon just nodded and stalked into the elevator, jamming the button hard in his anger.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Jim Gordon was expecting the huge police presence, but was rather unprepared for the multitude of news crews that met him as he got out of his car, still in his tuxedo, only lacking the bow tie he had pulled off the instant he got into his car. He forced his way through the assembled throng of reporters, saying only that he had no comment as flashes went off and video cameras were stuck into his face, thankful when he got through to the police line and found Stephens already waiting, having heard the commotion.

"Jim," he said, and there was a touch of relief in his voice.

"Tell me," Gordon ordered, steeling himself as he strode towards the door of the diner, ignoring the faces of his people, showing emotions from anger to grief, knowing that only tight control were keeping the same off his face. They needed him calm and in control, they needed a leader.

"Timeline is still a little sketchy; we're going to have to watch the security tapes to get it all clarified, but from what we've gotten out of the witnesses the perp came in, looked around, and started firing directly at our guys."

"So it wasn't a random attack?"

"It's still a possibility. Any idiot would realize that the cops would have guns, and would want to take them out first. We have three others injured, one critically. That's not including Montoya, who apparently was coming over to join those three when they guy started shooting. She and I had just finished our shift." Stephens swallowed. "She asked me to come over with her, that Bair and Jackson were coming on shift in an hour and Morales was going off and they were going to get a late dinner. From what she told me before they took her to the hospital, Montoya heard the shots, came in from the street with her gun out, and shot to take him down when he turned on her. It sent his shot wide and she got winged; it's a minor injury." Stephens opened the door and Jim stepped into the quiet of the empty café, taking in the scene before him, forcing himself to be detached as he watched the crime scene agents doing their job.

There was glass all over the floor, flashing red and blue from the lights of the squads parked outside as crime scene detectives did their job, numbering bullet casings and locating bullet holes scarring the tiled walls. "Where was Morales' partner?"

"Miller's got a baby girl, so he never stays after he's finished. He goes home to help his wife."

Jim nodded, avoided looking to the bodies still slumped around their booth as long as possible. "The shooter died before reaching the hospital," Stephens told him then. "Won't get any answers from him."

Having taken in the rest of the scene, he finally had to look at the corpses, struggling to keep his detachment against the anger churning in the pit of his stomach. Bair, husband and father of three, slumped against the window overlooking the street, his face surprised, eyes open and glassy. Sitting on the inside of the booth, he had not even had a chance to stand.

Morales lay on the floor, gun a foot away on the cold white tiles. His wedding ring gleamed under the fluorescent lighting. Despite being a ten year man, he'd almost always worn a smile in the MCU, keeping up his spirits to the benefit of everyone else. Lord only knew how his Betty, his wife, would keep her own spirits up now.

Jackson, the last, was bent awkwardly back across the table, as though the bullet to her temple had struck her as she knelt on the bench, using the back of the seat for cover between shots. Her eyes were open wide in shock, her gun close to her lifeless hand. She had fallen across the dish of spaghetti Gordon knew she favored. Tough and determined, she'd had every chance to escape Gotham for a better life elsewhere, but she'd passed them by out of a sense of duty to her hometown and to her elderly mother, who had the beginning stages of Alzheimer's.

Gordon's stomach lurched and he had to turn away from the bodies. "Got an ID on the shooter?" he asked Stephens, his voice steady despite everything.

"Not yet. They've printed him, but there was no ID or identifiers on the body. They're also running the serial number on the gun. Weapon used was a nine millimeter, Makarov PM by the looks of it. CSI guys have it, they're going to work it over."

"Have their families been notified?"

"Yeah," Stephens answered, unable to keep the tension from his tone. "First thing. Knew the news'd break quickly." Gordon nodded.

"I know I can trust you to supervise here, Gerry. I'm headed to the hospital to check on Montoya and the civilians hit. Keep me in the loop." Stephens nodded and Gordon turned to leave, dress shoes crunching on broken glass. "I'll be at the MCU after. Don't let anyone talk to the press. Tell them a statement is forthcoming if they press you for anything."

"We know the drill," Stephens assured the Commissioner.

"I know, and I trust you to keep everyone following it." He was pleased to see the press had been pushed back, and he was able to get to his car unmolested. "I'll see you back at the MCU." He shut the car door and pulled away from the curb, moving slowly until he got onto open streets.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Jim Gordon removed his glasses and rubbed his temples, pinching the bridge of his nose against the growing tension headache he felt pounding behind his eyes. He had left Wayne's fundraiser just after eleven-thirty; it was now a little after three, and the rented tux shirt chafed against his neck. He'd long since abandoned the jacket to its fate, tossed the cufflinks he'd inherited from his father into one of his desk drawers, and undid the top button on the shirt, but the discomfort was getting harder to ignore with every minute that ticked by on the clock. It was a small price to pay, however, considering the magnitude of the problems before him, and he did not begrudge any second, knowing that across the city three families were sharing his sleepless night, only in an agony far more potent than Jim's.

He put his glasses back on as his phone beeped, signaling a new text message. He flipped open the phone, noted the restricted number the message came from, and opened it. It was short, saying simply "_Roof. Five minutes._" Gordon cursed a little under his breath. He pondered responding, but knew full well that Batman would be on the roof in five minutes whether Gordon wished his presence or not. He sighed and rose, moving through the din of the regular offices as though he were going to the restroom, wishing he could take a cup of coffee with him as he had in the past. Those days were years gone, however, and Gordon was empty handed as he slipped up the stairs to the roof and opened the heavy door there, locking it behind him.

Batman was already there; Gordon could sense it even though he could not see the vigilante. "You shouldn't be here," he said to the darkness. "Downstairs is full and tempers are high. You're going to get yourself killed."

"I won't be seen," came Batman's gruff voice from the shadows before he stepped into the half light emanating from the fixture above the roof access door. "None of you saw me earlier on scene."

"You were there?" Gordon asked, unable to keep the stress from his voice. Batman gave a single curt nod.

"I don't have any answers for you. Three good cops are dead and we're lucky it wasn't more. No motive. Montoya and three civilians are at Gotham General. They're at least expected to live. Gun recovered was a Makarov PM, pretty rare in Gotham, same as some of the recent murders of junkies and dealers, which is a pretty strange connection. We're not sure it means anything yet. There's a chance the junkies and dealers were simply the Chechen's organization cleaning house."

"Possibly. I'll let you know what I get."

"And vice versa." Batman nodded and stepped forward, a heavily armored, gauntleted hand falling onto Gordon's shoulder and gave it a brief, reassuring squeeze Gordon almost found sympathetic. It lasted only a moment, and then the hand was gone; another instant and a whirling of cape and Gordon knew he was again alone. Gordon forced his startled breathing to even before turning to go back downstairs.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

When he re-entered the offices, Stephens had returned. "All right commish?" he asked. Gordon nodded.

"I needed some air. It's been a long night." Stephens returned the nod of agreement, and followed Jim into his office and sat across the desk from the commissioner.

"We just finished preliminary interviews on all the witnesses not in the hospital. We'll have a place to start once we get an ID on the shooter. Press is expecting a statement in the morning, and apparently the mayor called in for an update. CSU's almost done going over the scene. They'll update us as they get the answers."

Gordon nodded, then fixed his gaze on Stephens, studying the other man for a long moment. "Are you okay to head this one up?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Your partner was shot, Gerry."

"And it could have been me? Believe me, Jim, I know. But I can do this. I think I need to do this."

"Okay. Then you and Bullock are heading this one up. I need my best people on this."

Stephens accepted with a nod. "How's Montoya?" he then asked.

Gordon sighed. "The wound isn't serious. She'll be released in the morning. Otherwise, she's feeling like any of us would in the situation."

"Like shit."

Gotham's commissioner nodded. "I'm taking her off rotation until this is resolved. She needs a little time, but I know Renee; she'll be fine eventually."

"I'll go see her in the morning. Well, later this morning."

"In the meantime, do what you can," Gordon told him. "We need to cover all our bases, make sure we know why this happened."

"Understood."

"How is the rest of your caseload? Do I need to reassign anything?"

"Most of mine have hit dead ends since Broden was killed two weeks ago. Bullock doesn't have much either since his partner's on leave. We can take care of this."

"Thanks," Gordon told his best detective.

"I think it'll be all right, Jim. Odds are he was acting alone, otherwise there'd have been two shooters and more cops dead."

"I hope you're right. All the same, follow all your leads. I don't like a lot of things about this one."

"Always do. We'll get to the bottom of it."

"Thanks, Gerry."

"You going to get any sleep, Commish?"

"No," Gordon answered.

"Yeah, I know," Stephens said. "Bullock's already on his way in. Called me and said he figured you'd need him. We'll make up our plan of attack, and I'll keep you informed."

Gordon dismissed him with a nod. Once the door closed behind the other man, Jim allowed himself to slump in his chair, tired to the bone but knowing sleep would never come. With a sigh, he straightened and went back to work.


	7. Chapter 7

_**Author's Note: Thanks for your patience in waiting on this chapter. I recently went back to school for my PhD and time has been a premium. But I'm still working on this, I promise; the entire fanfic is actually finished, I am merely working on additions and edits so the major work is done and the rest is soon to come. Hope you enjoy this! -Nataku**_

_**Chapter 7**_

The vehicle the press had taken to calling the Batmobile glided slowly to a stop in the space set aside for it and powered down, the roof sliding open so Batman could emerge. Alfred, alerted by the alarm on the Cave access road, was waiting in the lit area by his bank of computers with a lunch already set out the accustomed table. "Welcome back, sir," he said. "I trust you've come back in one piece?"

"More or less," Batman answered as he drew the cowl back off his sweat damp hair, wiping away the makeup around his eyes to reveal dark circles underneath. Moving towards the shower, he discarded the multiple Kevlar plates that made up his uniform, hearing Alfred gathering them up to put away behind him as he turned on a spray of hot water. Standing underneath it, he allowed the warmth to work into sore muscles, easing away the tension of his nightly patrol before he soaped up and cleaned away the dirt and grime of his city.

When he had finished, he drew on a pair of black silk pajama bottoms and a black t-shirt before going back out into the main part of the cave. "I do believe the scans you were waiting for have finished, Master Bruce," Alfred commented as he poured a cup of hot green tea and set it by Bruce's left elbow.

"Thank you, Alfred," Bruce said, pressing the key which would bring the mainframe out of hibernation. As it whirred back to life, he took a bite of the sandwich Alfred had made, studying a new bruise blossoming on his upper arm with detachment. His distraction ended, however, when the screen flared to life and started scrolling through information at Bruce's reading speed.

He chewed as he read, leaning slightly back in his chair as casually as he ever did in the Cave, his mind going through the information and filing it away. The last piece, however, had him jerking straight in the chair and pressing a button to pause the report. He cursed low under his breath as he studied the screen, bringing Alfred back with a frown. "Master Bruce?"

Batman ignored the butler for a moment, glancing at the clock on the worktable. "I don't think it was the same assailant, Alfred," he said, bringing up photos of the boot imprints taken from Gordon's home and two of the previous crime scenes. Pressing a few buttons, he brought up a more detailed analysis comparing the Findley's shooter's footwear with the photos."Whoever murdered the police at the diner was wearing different shoes than the other crime scenes. The imprint of the sole is completely different."

"Perhaps he had more than one pair, sir?"

Batman pulled up the information he had on the shooter, who both he and the police had identified. "Leon Ortega," he read. "Arrested for assault five years ago. Sentenced to Arkham after being diagnosed with paranoid personality disorder. He was one of the escapees that was never caught after the incident in the Narrows. He had no employment and no permanent address. It's unlikely he would have had more than one pair. Besides…" he scanned the analysis again. "Ortega wore roughly a size thirteen shoe; the shoes from the murder scenes and Gordon's apartment are roughly two sizes smaller. While ballistics show it was the same type and caliber of weapon, it wasn't the same shooter." Wayne frowned. "Which means the incidents are either completely unrelated, or there is more than one person with a grudge against the police department working together." He studied the information, calling up a few more windows before speaking again. "Makarov PM, 9 millimeter. That isn't a common weapon, or at the very least there haven't been a large number brought in based upon the contents of shipments the police have hit." He pushed another button. "In the last two years, there have been nineteen murders associated with that type of weapon; ten of them have occurred in the last several months. The first was a known dealer found dead by beat cops at six a.m. on February 27. From then, roughly twice a week there was another murder using the same weapon, all taking place in the same nine block area encircling Crime Alley. The murders of the three officers at Findley's Café on March 23 marked the last time the weapon was used in a homicide."

"Leading one to assume that the serial killer was the same person."

"Exactly," Batman said. "But why would he suddenly change his M.O? In nearly every incident involving that type of weapon, the victim was a drug dealer or a drug user. There's only two exceptions. The attempted murder of Commissioner Gordon, and the three officers dead at Findley's."

"You're thinking it may be a coincidence that Ortega used that sort of weapon?"

"Not necessarily," he answered. "The boot print I found at Gordon's suggests, at the very least, that it's too early to close the case. It may very well be a coincidence, but I don't think so. I think there's some important piece of information missing." He brought his hands up and rubbed his face.

"You do remember your lunch date with Mr. Fox and the Commissioner, Master Bruce?"

"Yes," Bruce answered.

"Then perhaps you had best get some rest."

Bruce nodded and stood. "It's too late to contact Gordon now. I'll have to warn him tonight. What time is the lunch?"

"Twelve-thirty sir. I'll have the car ready at eleven forty-five."

"Thanks, Alfred." He set a few more analyses running and then pushed his chair in, taking a moment to finish his sandwich. Alfred nodded his approval as he took up the tray and both of them made their way to the elevator which would take them out of the Cave and into the manor.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Commissioner Gordon stepped into the small lobby area of Gotham's second best restaurant, unconsciously straightening his tie, thankful the state of his dress shirt did not show that he had slept in his office the night before. He had forgotten all about this meeting until Marge's morning summary of his schedule, when it was far too late to return home to gather appropriate clothes. The woman had ordered him out of the shirt and disappeared, leaving him sitting in his office in his undershirt, returning a half hour later with it carefully pressed. He had thanked her, reminded himself to give her something extra nice at Christmastime, and prepared himself for the meeting without worrying he looked more like a hobo than Gotham City's Police Commissioner.

Lucius Fox was already waiting, speaking to the host as though they knew each other well. When he saw Gordon he shifted the folders from his right hand to his left and extended it with a charming, welcoming smile. "Mr. Wayne will be joining us shortly, Commissioner," he said as they followed the man to their table. "He's running a little late today."

"A common occurrence?" Gordon asked, judging from the man's easy tone.

"More often than not," Fox answered easily as they sat in mahogany chairs, table covered in crisp white linens and china dishes. "I apologize. He said we can go ahead without him, though I would like to wait a few minutes."

"Sure," Gordon agreed, ordering a coffee when the waitress appeared unobtrusively at his side. "It was good of Mr. Wayne to get this started for us," he commented once she had disappeared again. "I haven't gotten a chance to mention how thankful I am. With the city budget the way it is…"

"It's our pleasure to be of service," Fox answered smoothly.

"I admit I was surprised when he offered," Gordon continued, studying Fox intently out of the corner of his eye as the drinks arrived and he casually reached for the sugar bowl. "He doesn't seem the type to think about things like that."

"Yes, well, Mr. Wayne is a very…interesting man. He does manage to wake up on occasion."

"Rather surprising, considering most of the articles in the paper."

"Now, Commissioner, you don't believe everything you read, do you?" came a voice from over Gordon's shoulder. Years of nightly meetings with Batman kept him from being visibly startled by Wayne's sudden appearance a step behind, and he turned calmly to address the other man.

"Not at all. Not in Gotham anyway." He turned back to the table and stirred his coffee as Wayne took the seat beside Gordon and across from Fox.

"A wise policy," he said. "I'm sorry I'm late, I'm afraid it's a rather bad habit of mine. Did you start without me?"

"No, Mr. Wayne," Fox answered. "You haven't missed anything."

"Good," Wayne said with a broad smile that widened as the waitress appeared, assuring her he'd be fine with water 'after the night he'd had' before turning back to the two men at the table.

"Well, why don't we get started," Fox said, drawing some papers out of the manila folder he had already set on the table. "We can go over the basic details, discuss your needs, and figure out what Wayne Enterprises can offer." Gordon nodded his agreement and accepted a stack of papers from Fox, sitting back in his chair to look over them as the CEO explained the minutiae of the deal. He tried to ignore the fact that Wayne was sitting back in his chair again, barely listening, studying the room about them and casting smiles at the ladies whose eye he managed to catch, uncaring that just to his left, his CEO was working on a multi-million dollar donation. _It must be nice_, Gordon thought to himself somewhat distractedly as he listened to Fox. _To have that amount of money and so little to do with it that the loss of some millions wasn't enough to get his attention._

He shrugged internally and shifted his focus completely to the papers that Fox had put in front of him. Wayne mostly sat as though apart, obviously distracted, flirting with the waitress when she appeared, occasionally throwing an aside into the conversation between his CEO and the commissioner. Gordon had almost forgotten the man was there as, through the course of their meal, he and Fox slowly came to a workable proposal. When they had finally finished the details, Gordon finished his coffee and Lucius Fox put the papers now covering the scope of Wayne Enterprises' donation back into the folder as Wayne paid the bill and continued to flirt unashamedly with the young waitress, a short redhead whose face now matched her vibrant hair as she giggled at the billionaire's interest. "Well," Fox said, rising to his feet and ignoring his employer. "I think we've reached a workable agreement, commissioner. We'll find the equipment if you find the space for it, and agree to let us use the Gotham Police Department as a reference for future clientele."

"Fantastic," Wayne drawled, since the waitress was now gone. "I'm glad we could come to a deal." Jim forced back a smirk, and avoided commenting on the fact that Wayne had spent more time flirting than he had involved in the business at hand.

"The police department is getting the much better end of the deal, I think," he said to both men. "Thank you both. This will make things easier and safer for my people," he added, referring to the newest bulletproof vests Wayne, in his one contribution to the conversation, had offered to pay for.

"Well, Gotham's finest have to have the best, don't they Commissioner?" Wayne asked, as they left the table.

"I am pleased you think so, Mr. Wayne," he said.

"Can I offer you a ride, Commissioner? I saw you walked over."

"It's four blocks to the MCU, Mr. Wayne, I can manage, but thank you."

"Four blocks here AND four blocks back?" Wayne shook his head. "That is just TOO far for a working man like yourself," he said as they entered the lobby. "I _insist_, Commissioner. To do otherwise would just be a horrible want of manners. Alfred wouldn't speak to me for a week, and I can't manage that. I _depend_ on him, you know?"

"Very well, Mr. Wayne," Gordon agreed, somewhat reluctantly, as they walked out into the weak sunshine of an early spring day. Wayne stopped suddenly, however, and frowned. "Where's the valet and my car?" he asked, his face twisting in confusion. "It should be here." Gordon stood by his side awkwardly, trying to ignore the flashes as the paparazzi took photos of Gotham's favorite son.

"He's probably getting it now, Mr. Wayne," Fox commented as they stopped on the sidewalk. "Think of it as time to improve your tan. It could use some work."

"Right as always, Lucius," Wayne said with a laugh, turning to Gordon. The commissioner's gaze shifted to focus on Wayne, yet as they did so his gaze passed a young man standing in the crowd over Wayne's shoulder. His stare was hard, purposeful, and locked on them; whether his focus was Wayne or himself, Gordon could not tell, but his instincts were screaming. He reacted without thinking and opened his mouth to speak, but the man was already reaching into his dirty denim jacket.

Shoving Wayne aside with his left hand, Gordon's right dropped immediately to his own weapon, but the assailant had the gun drawn and fired before Gordon could reach his. The bullet struck Gordon's shoulder, causing him to stagger backwards, his hand flying away from his weapon as he went down onto one knee, breathing hard. Gordon heard the sound of blows as he fought to straighten against the pain, and then heard a groan among the screams of the bystanders, from Wayne or Fox he could not tell.

He forced himself to concentrate and steadied himself with his good arm, ignoring the blood soaking into his jacket. A quick survey of the area showed Fox on the ground, unconscious, Wayne dazed beside him, and their assailant…bringing his gun to bear on the billionaire. By necessity, Gordon again went to his gun, pushing himself to his feet despite his dizziness and drew his weapon with an unsteady hand that was slick with blood. "FREEZE!" he yelled as he aimed with shaking hands.

The world slowed and silenced, Wayne turning as the gun aimed itself at his back, his eyes widening. The assailant shouted something, words that did not reach Gordon's ears through the haziness in his mind, complete and utter silence descending as Gordon raised his weapon. The silence shattered an instant later, broken by the sharp rapport of the assailant's gun a moment before Gordon pulled the trigger of his service weapon. Gordon's shot went off target, his shaking hands not allowing him to react as the attacker twisted, Gordon's shot grazing the upper arm as the man fired a second time.

Gordon had no time to react; had no time to do more than realize what was about to happen before the bullet struck his abdomen with such force he was knocked to the ground, falling like dead weight, glasses flying off his face to shatter on the pavement.

He tried to take a breath against the pain, overwhelmed by the agony radiating from his stomach with each attempt. Clenching his hands into fists, trying to focus on something, hearing someone yelling for an ambulance as hands pressed hard onto the wound, Gordon opened his eyes to see Bruce Wayne's face above his. He frowned, seeing for a brief, horrible moment not the man but the child, his expression recalling a long ago night of terror, fear, and incomprehensible loss. For a minute there was nothing but confusion, before Gordon put himself back into the present, his mind grasping onto what had happened… "It…It's okay," he managed to say, and Wayne looked down at him, eyes taking on an expression still more terrible. Gordon tried to speak again, to reassure the other man that it would be all right, that this would end differently than that night in the dirty alley twenty years past. But Gordon's whole body spasmed in pain, distracting him from anything save the agony tearing through his nerves like fire with each shallow, gasping breath.

A blood-damp hand was suddenly gripping his with nearly bone-crushing strength, and it gave him something on which to focus. He managed to open his eyes again, saw that Wayne was speaking, felt one hand still pressing down hard to his abdomen as the words washed unheard over him. He only heard the approaching sirens and, an indeterminate amount of time later the sound of two vehicles screeching up to the curb and the slamming of a door. Suddenly Stephens' face was above his, joining Wayne's.

There was a moment of slight respite before he again felt agonizing pressure on the wound in his stomach and another hand pressed down onto his shoulder. He could no longer see Wayne; it was Stephens now, better trained, who pressed down hard to keep him from bleeding out before the paramedics arrived. For a moment, he felt remorse, knowing Stephens would have to call Barbara in Chicago before the kids saw this on the news. Gordon hoped that it would be easier on her, now they're divorced, despite the fact she was right, all along. Gotham would be…was?…the death of him.

"Gerry," he managed, and the man looked down at him.

"They're coming, Commish," he said, keeping up the pressure as Gordon's world began to go black around the edges.

"No," Gordon gasped, because that was not what he meant. Not the medics.

"I know what to do," Stephens replied, and that was reassuring. Stephens could manage Barbara and the children and the Batman. Gordon nodded as his breath started coming faster, his heart pounded hard in his chest in an attempt to compensate for the blood loss, and sweat broke out on his forehead. It hurt beyond anything he had experienced before, and Gordon knew without a doubt that he was dying. Fighting hard to stay awake and to slow his breathing, he heard Stephens' voice, harsh and with an edge of fear, as if from a great distance. "Where the hell are the God-damn medics?" he yelled, and maybe Jim did not hurt so much anymore.

He did not see the paramedics pushing Stephens out of the way so they can get to him, barely felt the oxygen mask they thrust over his face, he just thought of his son and his daughter, fighting the rising guilt at leaving them fatherless. His last thought before the world faded into nothingness and his mind knew no more was of those he was letting down: his children, his people, the Batman…


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Bruce Wayne sat in the back of the third ambulance brought to the scene as a paramedic carefully bandaged the gunshot wound to his bicep, staring at the blood staining the sidewalk where Gordon had lain. Bruce's Armani suit jacket lay discarded beside it, crumpled and torn, the blood staining it nearly invisible in the black cloth. Years of long training allowed him to easily suppress the shudder that threatened at the sight of the stiffening fabric. He forced himself to look away from the crimson pool, shining brightly in the sunlight, trying to forget two similar pools merging into one in the scarcely reflecting light of a dimly lit alley.

There was a lot of blood. In his head, Bruce found himself doing calculations in order to estimate the exact amount, the forensic scientist attempting to discover if it was _too_ much on the pavement, if there was too little left running through the veins of his partner. When he got to the answer, he found he did not like it much. He started calculating again, double checking math he knew to be right, and had gotten halfway when the paramedic finished bandaging. "We're going to take you to the hospital now for stitches, Mr. Wayne," he said. "If you could please lie down…"

Bruce did as he was told, finishing his calculations as the ambulance sirens turned on and the vehicle began to move, receiving the same answer as before. The paramedic was silent sitting beside him, checking vitals and occasionally speaking to his partner in the front. By the time they arrived at the hospital, Bruce had done the math again, received the same answer, and resigned himself to it, his face set in hard lines which were actually consternation but could be mistaken for shock.

When they arrived, he was helped down out of the back of the ambulance and into a waiting wheelchair amidst the flashing of cameras and the shouts of reporters held back by a line of police and wheeled quickly into the emergency room. Escorted to his own room away from the main part of Gotham General's ER, he was joined quickly by a doctor and a nurse who made short work of the graze on his upper arm, stitching it, cleaning it, then wrapping it tightly in a bandage while Bruce tried not to think about how much he hated hospitals.

He hated the sights and the sounds and the _smells_ of them, particularly in the emergency room. His upper arm throbbed where the attacker's bullet had grazed and he did not need a mirror to see the black eye the attacker's fist had given him as he'd stepped in to protect Lucius. He used his good arm to press an ice pack the nurse had offered to the injury, his injured arm tucked into a sling a harried nurse had put on him.

He did not blame her distraction. He imagined that the news crews and paparazzi outside made for a very stressful work environment, and that the police presence everywhere did not help either. "Mr. Wayne," a voice said from his left, and he looked up to see Detective Stephens standing there. "My name's Detective Stephens. I'm sorry to bother you, considering, but I need to take a statement about what happened." _Good_, Bruce said to himself as he studied the other man, his face carefully confused. _He's still functioning and focusing on the investigation first. Despite…_ He pushed Jim Gordon's pale, motionless face from his mind, the calculations he had done.

"A statement?" he said aloud. "I would rather ask you for an explanation!"

"Mr. Wayne," Stephens said, and his tone held the barest hint of irritation that did not escape the notice of the Batman. "I need to know what you saw. We need to find the man who did this."

"Yes you do!" Wayne agreed. "We could have all been killed!" Stephens visibly took a breath, and for a brief moment glared at Bruce. "At his age, Lucius…"

"Mr. Wayne." The voice was firm, unyielding. "Tell me what happened."

"We'd just finished lunch, and I was going to give the Commissioner a ride back to work. He wanted to walk, of all things, but that was just unthinkable, so I convinced him I should drive. But we went outside and the car wasn't ready, can you imagine, Detective? I'll have to put in a complaint, this could have all been avoided if that valet had just done his job and had it there when I wanted it. I mean, it isn't…"

"Mr. Wayne, stick with the necessary details please," Stephens interrupted him, his voice again hard.

"Well, I was talking to Jim, just like that, and the Commissioner said my name and pushed me behind him, and then the guy was there and just _shooting_ like he had no idea who we _were_. And the Commissioner got shot, right in the shoulder, and then the man hit _me_ and I can't _believe_ he'd do that, but look at this!" Bruce dropped the hand holding the ice pack. "And I have a date with Claudia Evangelista next week…"

"Mr. Wayne," Stephens snapped. "What happened next?"

"He aimed his gun at _me_ and he _shot _me! And the Commissioner tried to shoot _him,_ and I think Jim may have hit him, but I don't know for sure, and then whoever it was shot the Commissioner againand ran off down the street the way he came from. I didn't see where he went; I was trying to help Jim."

"All right. We're going to need to get a description of the assailant from you, Mr. Wayne."

"Of course," Bruce agreed, sitting back and putting the ice pack back onto his face as Stephens' phone began to ring. He fished it out of his pocket and excused himself. "Stephens," he said, moving to the other side of the room, almost out of earshot. "Yes, Mr. Mayor, this is…" There was a long pause, and the detective brought his hand to his face and pinched his nose, his eyes pressing closed. "Yes, I understand, sir…the doctors haven't told any of us anything…I am, sir…Yes, of course…I'll do my best. Thank you." He hung up the phone with a sigh. "All right," he said, turning back. "Let's get this over with. Mr. Wayne?"

It was a tricky thing to play his role properly while still giving Stephens the information he needed; Batman had a photographic memory, but Bruce Wayne certainly did not. He hesitated as though he was thinking deeply. "Well, I guess he was shorter than me…I'm pretty tall so I guess that isn't hard though, but he was maybe about your height? A bit taller? I…"

"Detective?" came a voice from the entryway to the private room Bruce had been given, and Stephens turned as Bruce let his voice trail off.

"Excuse me a minute, Mr. Wayne," Stephens said and stepped out of the room. Bruce could hear them speaking low, just outside the door, a conversation that lasted a brief minute before Stephens re-entered. "Well, we get to do this the easy way," he told the billionaire as a patrolman entered with a young man with a camera bag and a laptop case slung over his shoulders. "Mr. Wayne, this is Mr. Grey. He believes he may have gotten a photograph of your assailant."

"Really? Well, that's good, isn't it?" Bruce watched as the young paparazzi pulled his computer from his bag and set it on the tray table beside the hospital bed where Bruce was seated. It chimed, the screen showing pictures of Bruce standing outside of the restaurant between Gordon and Fox, hands on his hips and looking every bit the irritated playboy. "Well," Bruce said, studying the image, "I can see that I definitely need to rethink the haircut…"

"Mr. Wayne." It was practically a growl from Stephens this time, and Bruce dutifully shook his head. "He's not in that one," he said, and the young man flipped to the next, which Bruce viewed with an air of vague interest. "You certainly do like taking pictures of me…" he commented to the photographer. "He's not in that one, either." Again the photo changed. "You know, that…but no, he's too tall. He was rather short, almost your height, detective." He studied the next photograph, and this time he leaned forward to study it in detail. "There. I think it was him." The shot showed a man with hard lines etched into a face that could have been anywhere from his late twenties to mid forties, his blond, washed out hair thinning and unkempt, his clothes ragged and patched. He was a nondescript person, no distinguishing marks visible in the photo, and Stephens frowned and addressed the paparazzi. "I'm going to need copies of all your pictures, if I can." The man nodded as he put away the computer.

"Of course, sir," he said, as the door opened again and this time Alfred entered, the worry on his face not an act.

"Master Bruce," he said, as he hurried over to the bed. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, but about this swelling…" he pulled the ice pack off his face.

"We can get that taken care of," Alfred assured the billionaire. "Soon as we get home. I just spoke to the doctor and you're free to go."

"I'll just need contact information, Mr. Wayne," Stephens told him. "In case we have any more questions."

"Of course." Bruce fumbled into his jacket pocket and pulled out a card case, offering Stephens his business card.

"A moment, detective," Alfred said, taking the card and drawing a pen from his pocket. He wrote another number on the back. "That's the number for the manor itself."

"Thank you," Stephens said, tucking the card into his pocket. "I'll be in touch, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce nodded. "Of course. Give my best to the Commissioner."

"If I can, I will, Mr. Wayne." He turned and left, motioning for the photographer to follow.

"Let's get you home, Master Bruce," Alfred said.

"As quickly as possible," Bruce said, low. "Gordon…"

"I know, sir," Alfred said, and Bruce nodded. They went out together into the hallway where a nurse was waiting. "We're going out the back way, sir. Avoid the news crews. You need your rest, injury like that."

"Okay, Alfred," Bruce readily agreed, still clutching the icepack to his face in an attempt to hide the black eye he was sporting. He followed the butler through the hospital without a word, his face held cluelessly neutral while inside he could feel the rage surging. It was not until they were safely in the soundproof limo behind the tinted windows that Bruce tossed aside the ice pack, his face settling into hard lines of worry and anger. Getting into the car, Alfred glanced into the rearview mirror and saw his charge's face, and a slight frown graced his own features.

"Master Bruce…" he said, compassionately. "Is the commissioner's condition that serious?"

"Very serious, Alfred." Silently Alfred started the car and Bruce tried to tamp down on the anger that rose inside him, threatening to spill over into a rage to direct at any number of people. To the attacker—who was he? Batman was going to find out-; to himself, for not being able to do anything to help, though he could have, feeling well the stare of the public eye and the specter of his secret; to Gordon himself for not being fast enough to react, to find cover and save his own life instead of protecting Bruce's. "Damn it," he cursed.

"Master Bruce," Alfred said gently. "It's Commissioner Gordon's job to protect people, and he sees it as the highest duty. As you do."

"It is not his job to get shot for _me_, Alfred," Bruce snapped back, trying not to think about everything the man had done for him.

"To him it is, Master Bruce. Commissioner Gordon knows the risks," he said, simply.

"Damn it, Alfred, he's got a family!"

"And so do you, Master Bruce," Alfred said firmly. "I told you once already. Don't make the mistake of thinking there's no one interested in _your_ future." He looked at Alfred, the anger still raging on the surface, but beneath, apology. He knew Alfred can see it, knew Alfred would understand what he said next.

"He's got kids, Alfred. They shouldn't know what that's like."

"And they might have to, Master Bruce. And even if they do, they'll get through it."

"You sound so sure, Alfred."

"You turned out all right." At that Bruce barked out a laugh, one that was mostly sarcastic but had a note of humor.

"Some people might wonder about your definition of 'all right'," he informed the man who had been a father to him in many ways since the night the man with the gun made him an orphan.

"My definition's fine," Alfred replied, easing the car onto the expressway. There was another long silence before Bruce shattered it; now, the anger was hidden, his tone much more fragile and hurting.

"Gordon was there that night, Alfred. Before you came to get me." Alfred had no need to ask what Bruce was referring to, it was clear by Bruce's tone of voice, the distance in his eyes. "That was why I chose him to be Batman's partner. He was there…he tried to help me. He was a good man and a kind one and I repaid his kindness with this." There was a long silence before Alfred spoke again across the gulf of the seat.

"Commissioner Gordon is a good man, and does right by anyone he can. This wasn't your fault, Master Bruce." Bruce remained motionless for a moment before he nodded. Gordon had done it before, even if it was not real. He always took his job seriously, like Batman did. Jim Gordon and Batman were similar, willing to die for Gotham without thinking of those left behind.

"We're almost home," Alfred said. "And then I'll get you a light supper."

"A quick one, Alfred," Bruce said.

"Going somewhere, are we sir?"

"Yes, Alfred."

"Might I remind you that…"

"No," Bruce said, and his voice was firm. "There are things I have to do tonight."

"Very good, sir," Alfred said, knowing it was useless to argue. They sat together in silence until they reached the manor, when he got out of the car and strode to his first-floor study without preamble, turning on GCN. It was not the amount of information he wanted, but he had to wait until it was dark before putting the suit on to go himself.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Detective Stephens sighed as he hung up on what felt like his five hundredth phone call of the night, with only a moment's peace before it rang again. He checked his cell phone's front screen then steeled himself. A 312 area code, and that meant Barbara was calling again, probably with hers and the children's travel arrangements. He answered the phone with a steady "Stephens," wondering if anything could be more awkward than the fact that this was not Barbara Gordon, Jim's wife, but Barbara Kean, Jim's ex, and this was the very reason she left him in the first place. He never asked, but his wife and Barbara were close and he knew why the divorce happened. So did Jim.

"Yes, Barbara," he said. "Okay, I will be there to pick you and the kids up personally." He paused, listened to her question. "Yes, I was just going back to the hospital." Another pause. "No, there's been no change." More words, and Stephens could tell she was trying not to cry. "I promise," he told her. "I'll let you get the kids packed, Barbara. I'll be waiting at the airport when you get here." He did not say he was coming personally because he did not want to trust anyone else with the job. "All right. I'll see you in a few hours." The other line went dead and Stephens rubbed his temples, turning on the back porch to enter his house.

"How is he?" came an unexpected rasp from the shadows, and Stephens jerked in surprise before he turned slowly to find the Batman staring at him from the shadows at the edge of the porch, just beyond the light streaming out the door.

"Not good," Stephens responded warily, turning to face the cowled figure in the darkness. "He lost a lot of blood."

"What's the prognosis?"

"Not something I like to think about," he stated honestly, rubbing his face in frustration, reminding himself that Jim Gordon trusted this man even if he did not. "Critical. He survived surgery, damned if I know how. Hell, I can't even figure how he made it to the hospital. If he makes it through the night, they go from there."

"And the attacker?"

"An eyewitness identified him from photographs taken around the time of the attack. We've got a face, but no name or motive. From studying the photographs, we have been led to believe that he used a Makarov PM, just like in a whole slew of previous incidents. We'll know more once ballistics gets the bullets from the hospital." Bullets they had pulled from Gordon's wounds. Stephens had never liked the idea, and liked it even less when it was a friend.

"What else?"

"Final autopsy reports came back on the Findley's shooter. Not sure how much the commissioner told you, but everything checked out except the blood tests."

"What was wrong with them?"

"The coroner had no idea. There was something unidentifiable in his bloodstream; she couldn't make heads or tails of it and is trying to do some further analysis on the samples she has."

"I need one."

Stephens turned to look at Batman, studying the masked figure in the darkness for a long moment, disapproval in the set of his mouth. "I imagine you have ways beyond our comprehension for figuring things out." The stare lasted another minute before Stephens looked away. "I'll see what I can do. Assuming something major doesn't come up, I'll try to be on the roof of the MCU tomorrow night at eleven with it. But I want to make something clear. I don't trust you, but for now it's enough for me that Jim does. However, if you even breathe in a way I find suspicious, this is done and I aim to bring you down. Got it?" Stephens turned, only to find that he was now alone and speaking to an empty porch. Cursing a little under his breath, Stephens yanked open their back door and entered the lit kitchen in order to kiss his wife and hug his sons before going back to the hospital and, from there, to the airport.


	9. Chapter 9

**Title**: Criminal Acts (9/18)

**Author**: StargazerNataku  
**Rating**: PG  
**Genre**: Drama  
**Characters**: Detective Gerry Stephens, Renee Montoya, Jim Gordon, Batman  
Summary: Even after twenty years in the Gotham City police department and there were some cases that never got easier. It began with an overdose…and continued with a slight break in the case.

_**Chapter 9**_

Batman watched Stephens pace back and forth on the roof of the MCU, speaking with some animation into his cell phone, though the words did not carry to the roof opposite where Batman crouched, waiting as across town Gotham Cathedral's bells began to chime out the eleventh hour. He had been there, observing, for nearly a half hour, listening to the police scanner through his cowl's earpiece for any indication that he was needed elsewhere or that Stephens would be delayed.

Nothing had come up, however, and the detective had appeared exactly three and a half minutes early, on the phone, a discussion which had grown slowly more animated as the seconds ticked by on Batman's internal clock. It was a minute past the hour when Stephens hung up the phone, shoving it into his coat pocket with a harsh movement that indicated to any observer that he would much rather have thrown it off the roof of the building. Stepping to the edge, he leaned up against the wall, his hands flat on the concrete as he took several deep breaths, calming himself before straightening and turning to face the skies, tension still running through every line of the man's body.

When Stephens' back was turned, Batman cast off a grapple and swung over, landing silently on the roof. "Stephens," he said, when he had straightened, causing the man to startle and turn in the darkness, his eyes seeking a moment before falling on the cowled face.

"Here," the man said without preamble, drawing two vials of blood from his jacket pocket. Batman stepped forward and took them, tucking them into his utility belt and closing the compartment with a scarcely audible snap. "That's all I can get without creating problems. There's been no progress otherwise either, unless you've made any." Batman did not answer, and Stephens shook his head. They stood motionless for a long moment, facing off in silence, leaving Batman to wish fleetingly that Gordon was there. The man had an uncanny ability to tell Batman what he wanted to know while allowing Batman to remain silent, an ability Stephens had not developed over a close partnership of years as Batman had with Gordon. "The commissioner?" he finally asked, breaking the stalemate.

"Still critical. The doctors aren't overly optimistic. We can only wait. He's got two of the best surgeons in the country on his case, so the odds are as good as he'd get anywhere." Stephens kept his gaze on the vigilante, their eyes locked. "I have to believe he'll come out of it and we're going to have that bastard in custody before he does. With or without your help. We owe him that, after all he's done for this city in general and us in particular." Batman gave a curt nod. "Now, how do I contact you for those results?"

"You don't," Batman said and, realizing Stephens was not going to look away, turned and leapt from the building as he drew out a grappling hook and fired it, catching himself into a swing after free falling several stories towards the pavement below. He focused, as he landed on the sidewalk beside the Batmobile, on the next step in his investigation, admitting silently that Stephens was right. What the detective did not realize, however, was that Batman owed Jim Gordon far more than the little Stephens wanted.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

In the cool of the cave, Bruce Wayne slipped the prepared slide containing Ortega's blood onto the stage of the microscope, then turned it on and peered into it. His hand sought the coarse focus, manipulating it until the cells were almost clear before using the fine focus to bring the cells into clarity. As he focused onto the murderer's blood, a frown crossed over his face and he took several images of the enhanced cells, including dark spots amongst the cells that were clearly out of place. He went to maximum magnification, but was unable to bring anything into a clearer vision of what was there. He frowned, feeling a sense of familiarity, as though he had seen something similar before. He took a final photograph before rising to cross to his supercomputer.

He sat down at the desk, using the built in camera on the microscope to snap several pictures of the foreign bodies at maximum magnification before opening up his database. He pondered for a few minutes before entering his search terms and sitting back to wait. During that time he scanned the photographs of the crime scene he had pulled from the police department's mainframe, looking for any clues he may have missed in the position of the bodies, the location of the spent shells, and the blood pooling crimson on Findley's black and white tile floor.

There was nothing there, however, that he did not recall seeing and analyzing before, and he set the photographs down with a frustrated sigh, turning instead to the photograph of the murderer's blood, still on the screen as the computer searched his files. Again, an uncomfortable sense spread through him, a feeling that he ought to recognize what it was he was looking at, but the memory was hazy and undetailed, an impression more than his usual perfectly formed remembrance.

Batman was thankful when the computer beeped, signaling it had completed its search, and he called up the results which contained the search terms he had specified. The majority of the files located were from the Gotham Police Department, and he steeled himself for a long morning of looking through each file in detail, trying to find any links to the sample that still remained on the monitor to his left.

He stopped, however, at the end of the list and, with a frown, noted the last file, one which came not from the police, but from Wayne Enterprises' mainframe. He had read only two sentences of the initial report when the hazy recollection began to coalesce into a more concrete memory. "I've seen this before," he said aloud.

"Seen what, sir?" Alfred asked as he came into the work area with a tray bearing a fresh pot of tea.

Bruce opened the file from Wayne Enterprises. "Just after the mess with the Joker," he said, "I sat in on a meeting with Lucius and an inventor by the name of Jervis Tetch. Tetch is a technological genius, and wanted us to fund research into nanotechnology. This," he said, motioning to the shape and what little details were visible in the slide with Ortega's blood, "Fits the profile of the device he wanted funding to build. We ended up not offering him a partnership because he seemed unstable and it was not the type of association Wayne Enterprises wanted to be involved in. And because we believed that he wanted to use this technology as a form of control." Batman frowned. "If this was present in Ortega's bloodstream, it's possible he wasn't even aware of what he was doing. That would mean that the real criminal had to be somewhere nearby manipulating the technology. Tetch's work wouldn't function without a signal. That is, if this is Tetch's work." His frown deepened as he pulled up some schematics. "There are security cameras in the area; Gordon had his men going over their tapes in the initial murder investigation." He rose. "I'm going out, Alfred." He drew his cowl over his face. "Don't wait up," he added as he strode towards the car.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Stephens stared through the one way glass at the nervous man sitting within the interrogation room, his washed-out blonde hair mussed and sticking up at all angles, his face tilted by a dramatic overbite in a head that sat too large on small shoulders. "Doesn't look like the murdering type, does he," Bullock commented. "I hate that kind, they're the ones who are usually the most messed up."

"Innocent until proven guilty, you know that," Stephens told the other man. "I think we've kept him waiting long enough. You stay out here and watch; I'll go in and ask the questions." Bullock nodded and Stephens went to the door, opened it, and stepped inside. "Mr. Tetch," he said as he crossed the room to sit across the table from the man. "I'm sorry to keep you waiting. My name is Detective Stephens and I have some questions for you in regards to an ongoing investigation." He opened the folder he had been carrying under his arm and withdrew the photos they had received from Batman. "Do you recognize these?"

"Good heavens!" the man said, drawing the picture close, his large eyes going wide with excitement. "Someone's used it, at last. Did it work, or perhaps did the effects wear off too fast?"

"You recognize this," Stephens asked, hiding his own surprise that the man had admitted to it.

"Of course I do, it's my own work. I'd thought I'd not see it again."

"What do you mean?"

"I'll tell you everything I can, though there's little to relate," Tetch said. "I shall begin at the beginning and go on 'till I come to the end. Several weeks ago, I came home to find everything on the floor. I tried to find out who was here, but could not find out more. Three vials were missing, and in each I had some of this. They are old prototypes never brought to production which I certainly did miss."

"You're saying they were _stolen_ from you."

"That is indeed what I say. I even filed a police report, and they came out nearly right away."

"Was there only the three vials you created?"

"No, indeed, I made two more, but those were kept apart under lock. They are at Gotham Central bank, in my deposit box."

"You won't mind if we check."

"Not at all."

"Tell me, Mr. Tetch, what are they?"

"Why, they're nanites," he said. "Some of those in someone's blood and they'll do whatever you say, provided you've also got the control."

"And who has the control?"

"Sadly, that was also taken. It'll take a fortune indeed to remake what is gone!"

"Do you have blueprints or diagrams of what was stolen?"

"Of course! I never get rid of such a thing. Whenever I want to sell a design, those are necessary to bring. They are in the box also, with the extra tech."

"Can you account for your whereabouts on the evening of March twenty-third?"

"Indeed I can. I had a meeting out of town to try to sell my device to one of some renown."

"Can they confirm this?"

"If you ask I'm sure they will. I have his card here, in my wallet still." He reached into his pocket and shuffled through it for a moment before offering Stephens the card.

"Michael Young, Lexcorp Research Division? You were in Metropolis."

"Indeed. I left here in the evening on the twenty-second, and returned home late on the twenty-fourth."

"Where did you stay?"

"At the Metropolis Grand Hotel." Tetch studied him. "I trust you know it fairly well?"

"Fairly," Stephens answered, pausing in his questioning and turning as the door opened and Bullock appeared, the look on his face thunderous.

"Excuse me a moment, Mr. Tetch," Stephens said. "We won't keep you waiting long." He rose and stepped out, turning to the other detective as the door slammed shut behind. "What?"

"We need to get to the hospital," Bullock said without preamble.

"Shit," Stephens said. "Jim…"

"No, he's still alive. But we've had another attempt on him."

"_What_? Who?"

"A nurse this time, injected him with two syringes of methamphetamines. They're trying to stabilize him now, and they've got her on the way to holding." Stephens glanced into the room where Tetch was looking about him nervously. "Damn it," he cursed. "So either this guy is telling the truth or they're in league. Either way…"

"We let him go for now," Bullock said. "We check into what he said. Already have one of the rookies looking up the police report."

"I don't want a _rookie_ to finish this up, Harvey. I still have some questions, and this…"

"Is a job for a desk rider," a woman's voice said from the side, and Stephens turned to find Montoya walking up to them, her arm held immobile in a sling. "Don't say it, Gerry," she said. "Yeah, the commish wanted me off duty, but I'll be damned if I don't help out on this one. Got it?"

"Montoya…"

"Yeah, yeah, you're acting commissioner. I get it, Gerry. I'm also not going home, so you can either put me to work and let me do my job, or you can waste my time by making me sit here and twiddle my thumbs." They stared at each other for a long moment.

"All right. But I want limited duty for you, Renee. I mean it. Watch the film, get yourself caught up, and take care of it."

"Thanks," she said, and there was a note of relief in her voice. He nodded, and turned to Bullock.

"Let's go," he said, turning on his heel, the other detective a pace behind, as they hurried off towards Gotham General.


	10. Chapter 10

_**Chapter 10**_

Batman crouched on the roof of Gotham General Hospital, his gaze on the streets below as a receiver in his cowl piped in sound from the hospital room below where Jim Gordon was fighting for his life.

"…_tell me what happened?" _Detective Stephens' voice came clearly over the link.

"_Officer Hearne was on duty,"_ a woman's voice began. One of the nurses, he was sure. Probably Patricia Richards, from the pitch of the voice and the slight Midwestern accent that still lingered in her vowels, even after a decade in Gotham. _"He let Terry in; Terry Patterson, she's one of the Commissioner's day nurses, you know. She told him she was helping me out with the nightly rounds since one of the other nurses called in. I thought it was odd; as I was going down to check on the Commissioner, I saw her coming back down the hall and commented that I thought she had gone home. She didn't answer me. She had this odd, blank look in her eyes and she didn't answer me."_

"_Is that out of character?"_

"_It is. I've never seen her like that, and she would never ignore me if I asked her a direct question. I'm certain she heard me."_

"_What happened next?"_

"_Well, I thought it was odd, but I…I trusted Terry, and so I continued on my way. That was when I heard the alarms. When I got to the Commissioner's room, I went in and found the syringes on the floor and the Commissioner destabilizing..." _the woman's voice trailed off momentarily. _"Detective, I've known Terry since I came to Gotham with my husband twelve years ago. I don't understand why she would do something like this, she…it isn't her, at all."_

"_What was in the syringes?"_

"_Methamphetamine. Assuming they were both full, he got much more than he ought to have."_

"_What happened next?"_

"_I don't know what happened next; I was too busy helping Dr. Safar try to stabilize him."_

"_Is Dr. Safar still on shift?"_

"_Yes, he is. He'll be here all night."_

"_All right, thank you."_

"_I need to see to my other patient, if you can excuse me..."_

"_Of course. I'll let you know if I have any more questions."_

"_Anytime, Detective. And feel free to stay with him for a few minutes if you'd like. I know you haven't had a chance the last day or so. He's stable now; thank God we found the syringes so we knew what she gave him. I just hope it didn't do any permanent damage."_

"_Thank you." _There were soft, almost inaudible footsteps and the sound of a door closing. Batman stood from his crouch and fastened a line securely to the roof of the building. Rappelling down, he counted the windows and found Gordon's, glancing in to make sure Stephens was alone in the room before removing a tool from his gauntlet and making short work of the window lock.

He entered silently, timing his entrance to a moment when Stephens, bowed where he sat in weariness, was not looking. He allowed, however, the blinds to rattle slightly, causing the man to startle and straighten immediately. "Stephens," he rasped, and the man rose. Both held the other's gaze, not looking down at the comatose man in the bed.

"You are _insane_!" Stephens said in a harsh whisper. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"How is he?"

"Christ," the detective swore in a low hiss. "So that's how we're going to play it? You risk everything, his reputation and mine, and you won't even explain? This how you play it with Gordon too? Some partnership!"

"How is he?" Batman repeated. Stephens looked at him, disbelieving, for a moment, and was the first to look away, his frustration coming through in his voice.

"Oh fine. He's critical already and his own nurse decides to off him. I'd say he's fabulous."

Batman ignored the sarcasm and moved silently to read the monitors before stepping to the end of the bed and picking up the chart there. He scanned it quickly, ignoring the detective, pleased to see there were notes suggesting Gordon's condition had been improving slowly. He returned the chart to its place, then moved up to the bed and studied Gordon himself, taking in the tubes and wires covering his lean frame, looking for signs of life in his face. Finally, he looked up at Stephens, meeting the detective's gaze before removing something from the folds of his cape. "They're fixed," he said, holding up Jim Gordon's glasses for a moment before setting them on a table near the bed. He took a step back towards the window. "Get a blood test on the nurse. I'll send you the video."

"Video? What video? You don't mean to tell me you've got this room bugged too?" he demanded. Batman, however, was already out the window, disappearing into the night, giving no answer. "Christ," Stephens swore again, glancing at the glasses before looking at the man unconscious on the bed. "Damn it, Jim," he said quietly. "I hope you knew what you were doing with that nutjob. I really do." With a sigh, he stepped out into the hall.

X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X

Stephens sat back in his chair, studying the CD left in a plan manila envelope that had been left on the passenger seat of his car sometime after he'd returned to the MCU from the hospital. He briefly pondered getting it dusted for prints, but instead removed it from the case and slipped it into the CD drive on his computer, pressing it closed and listening to it whir to life. When prompted, he opened the folder containing a single video file and, with a slightly annoyed frown gracing his features, pressed play.

He watched the nurse enter the room, moving surely and purposefully, readying the syringes without hesitation or even a glance at the bed. Making the injections, he watched her drop the needles on the floor and push them under the bed, then she calmly left without a look back. He continued rolling the video until after the duty nurse entered, confirming her story before clicking the stop button. Stephens threw himself back in his chair and rubbed his face as there was a brief knock on the doorframe and Bullock entered.

"They finished the tests on the nurse and brought her over. She's in holding and hysterical." He shifted the toothpick he was chewing to the other side of his mouth. "Keeps repeating that she didn't mean to do it, that she wasn't in control. Load of horseshit if you ask me."

"It's possible she wasn't," Stephens responded, offering the manila file folder that had been with the CD to the other detective. Bullock opened it and scanned the information inside.

"Mind control," he said. "That even possible?"

"Tetch says it is. And according to the papers I got from WayneTech, theoretically, based on the blueprints, he's correct, though they couldn't imagine it's ever been tested. Human based testing would never be approved. Not for such an ethical nightmare."

"So what, we got stolen tech that may be makin' people do things they don't want to do, including murder."

"Possibly," Stephens answered. "But the good news is that Tetch said only three vials were stolen, meaning there's only one more left in the murderer's hands. Assuming the nurse was affected anyway. We'll know once we get her blood tests back."

"There's somethin' botherin' me though," Bullock said, seating himself across the desk from Stephens. "Why'd Tetch keep any of the tech in his apartment. He's been in the papers enough with that mess with WayneTech that it's out there what kind of stuff he's got. Why wasn't it all in the safe deposit box? "

"That's a good question," Stephens said. "It's possible he took it out for the meeting."

"The meeting was two weeks after the theft. And, coincidentally, on the same day our boy goes into Findley's and kills three cops." Stephens frowned and thought that over.

"You think Tetch gave our perp the technology but covered it up as a theft?"

"Possibly. It makes sense. He couldn't test it himself, you just said that. And when you interviewed him the first thing he did was ask how it worked. He didn't seem that concerned with _how_ it was used."

"But then what about the commissioner? Why not just use the tech during the successful attempt on March twenty-fifth?" Stephens and Bullock were both silent for a long moment, in thought.

"Maybe he did," Bullock said. "We didn't get the guy, we can't be sure."

"Yeah, but witnesses at both Findley's and the hospital said the attacker seemed to be distant, almost as if they were sleepwalking. From the paparazzi video, it's obvious this guy knew exactly what he was doing. There's clear intent on his face."

"It does seem that way. Maybe he wanted the personal satisfaction?"

"Seems idiotic. He probably should have figured that with Wayne there there'd be at least some paparazzi. Seems like a hell of a screw-up, since we managed to get his face all over the city. He's been on every news network and in every paper in town for weeks."

"Which hasn't come to nothing yet. And that's assuming he had advance knowledge of where the Commish was going to be. He might not have known he was meeting Wayne," Bullock speculated.

"I want to know how he knew the Commissioner would be there at all," Stephens said. "I suppose he could have followed him over from the MCU, but why not act then? Jim walked, Wayne told us that much. He would have had an easier time getting at the commissioner if he hadn't used such a public forum. Particularly with Bruce Wayne and his crowd of paparazzi right there."

"You think Wayne was a target too?"

"I don't know what to think," Stephens said. "The more we learn the more questions we get. And I can't help but feel we're missing something important."

"What about Tetch? WayneTech confirmed he tried to get them to fund his research. Maybe he was unhappy about the rejection, so he gives this guy what he needs in return for taking revenge on Wayne."

"That's kind of a thin link, particularly when Tetch reported the material stolen. Wayne could have just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. And the assailant didn't actually hurt him that badly. Graze on the arm, a little blood but nothing dramatic."

"It could be," Bullock responded.

"But maybe not," Stephens commented, opening the laptop on the desk in front of himself and pressing play on the paparazzi video of the shooting they had been given. They watched the attack play out yet again and Stephens frowned. "Yeah, if you look at the timing in the video, the Commissioner was getting back to his feet and he had his piece in hand. The guy didn't have much time to aim, and you notice Wayne moved just as the guy fired. I think you may be right. Wayne's a lucky bastard."

"Yeah, it's a great scenario but we ain't got any proof. Not to mention that despite putting this guy's mug all over the news, we've gotten no tips that've panned out. We still don't know who he is," Bullock pointed out.

"And there's a ton of people in Gotham with motive." Stephens rubbed his face wearily. "Who would benefit from the Commissioner out of the way. And we can't even narrow it down to people who have a problem with him and Wayne because of Tetch's possible involvement. It could be completely unrelated. And in the meantime we've possibly got one vial of that stuff out there, meaning we can't trust anyone." He sat back in his chair and flipped through one of the file folders as Bullock picked up another and did the same.

"Well, what if we look at the other murders committed with that same sort of weapon. We know that both attempts on Gordon were with a Marakov. Bair, Jackson, and Morales were killed by the same type of weapon, and the shooter had Tetch's nanobugs in him. Then we had a bunch of murders, drug dealers mostly, also killed by the same type of gun. In Gotham pretty much only the Chechen's people use it."

"But here's the deal," Stephens said, looking at a page with each murder briefly summarized. "Of the string of murders, not counting the cops, every single dealer killed was affiliated with what was left of the Chechen's organization. The Findley's shooter, Leon Ortega, had a packet of smack on him that matched the batch profile of a kilo found in the apartment of the third dealer found dead. Ganya Ivanov, he'd been arrested for possession and imprisoned three times."

"So what we have," Bullock said. "Is someone that's pissed at the mob _and _the police."

"Which narrows it down only slightly, in this town. We should look up what cases Bair, Jackson, and Morales were working on," Stephens said as his phone on his desk rang. Laying aside the folder he picked it up. "Stephens," he said, and then listened to the voice on the other end. "Damn it! Where? All right, Bullock and I are on the way." He hung up and rose immediately, Bullock following suit. "They just found Ross and Burnley dead."

"Fuck it," Bullock cursed. "Where?"

"Just east of Crime Alley. Not sure which case they were working on, but they were following up a lead. Homeless lady apparently found the bodies in a dumpster and started screaming, brought a couple beat cops running." They were moving, tossing their jackets on, heading down towards the basement parking garage. "Shot, apparently."

"If they tell us it was a fucking Makarov I'm going to kick someone's ass so hard my boot gets lodged in their skull," Bullock said angrily.

"I'm almost with you there," Stephens said as he yanked open the driver's side door and got into the seat, sticking the keys into the ignition.

"Five cops dead in a little over a month, plus the Commish. We ain't going to have a PD left if this keeps up. We gotta find this jackass."

"We don't even know if it's the same assailant, Harv."

"Wanna bet?"

Stephens was silent for a long moment as he turned onto the streets of Gotham. "No, I don't."

"Didn't think so." Stephens tightened his grip on the steering wheel, but said nothing in reply.


	11. Chapter 11

**Title**: Criminal Acts (11/19)  
**Author**: StargazerNataku  
**Rating**: PG  
**Genre**: Drama  
**Characters**: Detective Gerry Stephens, Renee Montoya, Jim Gordon, Batman  
Summary: Even after twenty years in the Gotham City police department and there were some cases that never got easier. It began with an overdose…and continued with death.

**A/N: **I keep forgetting to thank my awesometastic beta gaudy_night. So here's to her, for putting up with my chapter-spam and helping me with ideas and plot and everything. I am also coming to realize I may have also thrown ideas off someone else on this one, but I can't find the emails (as they were awhile ago…), so if it was you please tell me because I feel pretty darn crappy I forgot. As Gandalf said about Butterbur, "Memory like a lumberyard. Thing wanted always buried." That's me to a T, and it's not because I'm not thankful, promises. Enjoy Chapter 11! Also, note: this fic now has 19 chapters instead of 18. Well it well once I write it anyway. ^_^ It may even go up to 20; depends on how well I can keep everything down to size.**  
**

_**Chapter 11**_

The full moon hung high above the skyscrapers of Gotham City, casting pure white light onto their heights so their stone, metal and glass shone brilliantly as the midnight hour chimed from the city's churchbells. The streets below, however, were steeped in shadows, light never reaching the litter-strewn wastelands of crime and decay. Patrolman Allen drove slowly down the dark streets, lit faintly by the subtle glow of few intact streetlamps and the headlights of the squad car. His partner sat by his side, his attention on the shadowy figures loitering on the steps of dilapidated tenements despite the lateness of the hour and the chilly late spring night.

"I hate this beat," Meyer commented briefly when he saw two smaller figures huddled against a larger one. "No way kids should be sleepin' on the street like that."

"Yeah. Mission must have been full. Things've been harder than usual lately."

Meyer nodded his agreement as the car's radio flared to life, squawking out a report of gunshots fired. He noted the location, and addressed his partner as he picked up the mike. "We're closest," he said, and radioed into dispatch that they were on their way. Allen flipped on the sirens and quickly drove the four blocks to the area where the shots had been reported. Both pulled their weapons as they jumped out of the car, eyes scanning the area.

It was Allen who saw it first. The pool of blood spread into the light of the single working streetlamp on the block, and both men moved slowly towards the body lying at the mouth of an alley, weapons held at the ready. Meyer dropped into a kneeling position, his hand going to the victim's neck to feel a distinct lack of pulse. "Don't bother," Allen said as Meyer reached for his radio to call for an ambulance. "There's nothing gonna bring him back from that. Not with his brains all over the street." Meyer glanced to the man's wounds and nodded, sitting back on his heels, studying the scene as Allen reached for his own radio.

A slight sound from the pitch-black alley several feet from them caused both men to freeze. Allen leveled his gun into the darkness and shifted slightly into the shadows outside the light of the solitary streetlamp. Meyer stayed crouched where he was, shifting slightly on the balls of his feet, ready to move. Both were well aware of their disadvantage, of the light streaming down on them, obscuring the darkness from which the sound had come. "Police!" Allen yelled into the darkness, "Come out into the light!" They waited together, listening hard for any indication there was someone else there. There was no other sound, no movement in the darkness; Meyer was certain his heartbeat was audible in the dead of the night. He shifted and cursed quietly under his breath as Allen again challenged whoever it was in the alley to show himself. An instant passed before there was the loud bang of a trash can lid hitting the ground, immediately followed by the sight of a lean grey and white cat streaking into the light before disappearing into the darkness down the street.

"Damn cat," Meyer said, lowering his weapon and turning to face the body again. Allen remained still, staring into the darkness for a long moment before his gun slowly started to fall to his side. He turned to speak to his partner as the sudden, sharp crack of a gunshot broke the utter silence and stillness. Allen's gun was up again in seconds and went off an instant, firing blindly into the darkness as a second shot was fired. In the process of rising to his feet, Meyer was knocked off them as the bullet drove its way into his chest, his gun unfired as it fell from limp fingers.

Allen, bleeding from the shoulder, fired twice more into the darkness, but could see as a shadowy figure, hand to his arm, turned the corner in the dim light adorning the entry at the end of the alley. He cursed, knowing he'd be unable to catch their attacker, and moved to Meyer's side instead. His hand, slick with the blood running down his arm, picked up his radio. "Officer down!" he reported, giving their location, pressing hard onto the wound as Meyer gasped for air. "Come on partner, don't you give up on me," he told the other man, who nodded. "We're not going down like this. Neither of us."

Dizziness assaulted his senses, however, and he felt his hands going weak on Meyer's injury. "Damn it," he cursed, swaying noticeably as he knelt, crisp blue pants soaked crimson from the blood of the victim and his partner. It was so severe he thought he imagined the slight whoosh of sound as booted feet hit the pavement. He did not miss, however, the black figure suddenly looming over him like his worst childhood nightmares given form. For a moment his heart stopped as his slick hand tried to gain purchase on his gun, but the figure kicked the weapon aside as he knelt beside them, cape tossed back over strong shoulders, well-muscled arms and hands appearing. One took Allen by his good shoulder and gently but insistently forced him to lie back beside his partner. From inside the darkness of the cape appeared a roll of bandaging, and in an instant there was something in place tightly pressing onto the wound.

He watched, dizzy with pain and the loss of blood as the shadowy figure bent over his partner, working quickly there as well, wrapping the wound as best he could, given its severity and location. Suddenly startled, the cowled head jerked up as the sound of sirens began to sink into his consciousness. In an instant, there was a sound like a gun and the figure was shooting upwards, disappearing into the moonlit upper canyons of Gotham.

Unable to process what he had seen, Allen fought to keep his eyes open to keep watch over his partner, already unconscious and dying, but soon succumbed to the darkness.

Gerry Stephens woke suddenly to his wife's elbow digging repeatedly into his ribs. "What?" he mumbled, sleep hazing his mind without recognizing the ringing of the cell phone on his nightstand.

"Wake up and answer your phone," she told him, her annoyed tone hinting to the fact it had been ringing for longer than he usually let it. He pushed himself into a sitting position and grabbed at it, flipping it open and putting it to his ear before allowing himself to fall back into the pillow tiredly. "Stephens," he said, bracing himself for what he was going to hear.

"It's Montoya," the other detective said without preamble. "And we have a situation to manage."

"What now?" he said, keeping the groan out of his voice only with a distinct effort.

"I'll tell you when you get here. I'm at Gotham General."

"Gotham General…Is Jim okay?"

"He's fine, but two patrolmen were shot. Allen's going to make it, but Meyer's still in surgery."

"Shouldn't their lieutenant…."

"Gerry, I need you here, because Allen's already awake and starting to ask questions, the annoying bastard."

"About?"

"The..." Montoya cleared her throat. "_Good Samaritan_ who treated them before backup arrived."

"Good Sa…oh, Christ."

"Exactly. See you soon." The phone went dead. Stephens sighed and flipped his phone closed. For a long moment he lay still, rubbing his face. Then, pushing back the sheets on his side of the bed, he swung his legs over the edge and sat for a moment, making sure he was fully awake before rising. He pulled the covers back up over his side of the bed, taking care to tuck them in closely around his wife where she lay.

"Where are you going this time?" she asked, less sleep in her voice than before.

"Gotham General," he said, glancing at the clock as he stepped into his pants. One forty-five. "Jim's fine, but two of our people were shot. Montoya needs a hand."

"Can't she call someone else? Gerry, you haven't had a good night's sleep in weeks. You're not twenty-two anymore, and you've got the entire city on your shoulders."

"Unfortunately, Jess, it's gotta be me."

"Why?" she demanded, and there was more worry in her voice than anger. "Why can't she call…"

"Because I'm standing in for the commish, Jess. It's what the Mayor wants until Jim's up and about."

"And if Jim is never ready to come back? Are we going to do this every night until you retire or worse?" He hesitated, looking into the mirror in which he was straightening his tie, his gaze meeting hers. With a soft sigh, he turned and crossed the room again, sitting on the bed next to her and taking her hand.

"This is only temporary, Jess. You know Jim Gordon as well as I do. The job is his life and he'll do it as long as he's able. He'll pull through, and he'll be back."

"And if he doesn't, Gerry? What then?" Stephens thought of Barbara, asleep down the hall in his older son's bedroom and Jim's children sleeping in his younger son's, and leaned forward. Wrapping his hand around the back of her neck, he kissed her gently.

"If he doesn't, then I tell the Mayor where he can shove the job."

"Promise?"

"Promise." She smiled finally and sat up to hug him.

"Stay safe." He nodded and kissed her again before rising from the bed with a final squeeze of her hand.

"Get some more sleep. For me, yeah?" She laughed.

"I always do," she said, lying back down again.

"Rub it in," he teased, shutting the door quietly behind him before shrugging into his suit jacket and heading downstairs and out to the car.

Stephens found Montoya in the surgical waiting rooms, deep in thought, flipping her badge around in her fingers restlessly. She stood when he entered and, surprisingly, refrained from commenting on his wrinkled pants and the dark circles under his eyes. But a matching set graced her own tired features, a weariness carefully masked under a guise of irritation. "I don't know what the hell he was thinking," she said, after checking they were alone. "You have any idea what to tell Allen?"

"I was going to wing it," he said. "Assuming they're letting him have visitors."

"They let me in, and he asked for you specifically. I arranged it with the nurses, or I wouldn't have called you over here."

"Their families been informed?"

"Allen's mother is on her way from Metropolis as we speak and they're still trying to get hold of Meyer's wife. She wasn't at home, and she didn't answer any of her phone numbers. She's often out of town for work, from what I was told. They're trying to track her down."

"He still in surgery?"

"Meyer? Yeah. Allen's in the recovery room."

"All right." He turned and Montoya followed him out of the waiting room to the nurses' station.

"Detective Stephens?" she asked after noting Montoya a pace behind. At his nod, she continued. "I'll ask you to keep your interview short. He's doing very well, but he does need rest."

"Of course."

"I already took his statement," Montoya told him under her breath. "And I.A. is sending someone in the morning. Then we'll be out of it. Except for the murder, of course."

"Of course," he commented dryly as he opened the door to Allen's room after a brief knock. "Officer Allen," he said, and the black man in the bed opened his eyes and looked at Stephens, then gave a nod. "You doing all right?"

"Yeah," the man said. "Doc said I'll be fine."

"Good," Stephens said, crossing to sit down in the chair beside the bed. "That's lucky."

"Luck had nothing to do with it," Allen said.

"No?"

"No." Allen stared at him for a long moment and the men neither spoke nor looked to Montoya, standing at the door, listening for traffic in the hall outside. After a long time, Allen broke the silence. "What's going on with him?" he demanded.

"With who?"

"You know who," Allen said. "The reason I'm still sitting here and not bled out on the corner of Kane and Meltzer."

"Some good Samaritan must have decided to help you out."

"No normal person wanders around with bandaging in their pockets, Detective. I _saw_ him. Like something out of your worst nightmares, only he bandaged us up instead of any of the alternatives I thought were going to happen."

"I imagine you weren't in your right mind," Stephens said.

"Don't pull that," Allen responded. "I saw him. I saw the Batman."

"You were delirious, Allen. In a lot of pain, you didn't know what you saw."

"Sir, I _did_. I damned well know that…"

"No, Patrolman. Let me be perfectly clear on this. You were delirious and you didn't see who helped you clearly. I don't care if you thought you saw the Batman, the President, or the God-damned Easter Bunny. You were delirious with blood loss and obviously saw something that wasn't there." They stared at each other for several long moments, neither breaking the other's unrelenting gaze. Finally Allen spoke.

"Is that how it is?" he demanded. "Christ, I thought Gordon's people were supposed to be different. The city thinks you're all angels, and you'll lie to me. To everyone."

Stephens tamped down on the anger that was rising, and silently cursed in the general direction of Commissioner James Gordon for putting this situation square in his lap. "We do what we have to do for the good of this city, Allen, and I don't like your tone. What we do we do for good reason, even if we don't share them with every Tom, Dick, and Harry on the force." He rose abruptly. "Don't mess with this, Patrolman. I mean it. If not for your own good, for the Commissioner. Got it?"

The glare held for a few moments longer. "Yeah, I got it," Allen said, finally, his eyes narrowed.

"Thank you," Stephens said, rising to his feet. "Get some rest, Allen. You look like you need it." He turned and looked at Montoya, who opened the door. Together they stepped into the hallway, the door closing with a click behind them.

"That went well," Montoya commented.

"He didn't believe a word of that, did he," Stephens responded.

"Not a word," Montoya agreed, almost cheerfully.

"Damn it. This is…" He stopped mid-sentence, however, as a doctor appeared before him, looking solemn.

"Detective Stephens, is it?"

"Yes," he answered.

"Have your people had any luck finding officer Meyer's next of kin?"

"Not that we know of," Montoya answered, tension in her voice. "Why?"

"I'm afraid the officer didn't make it, detectives. We did everything we could, but the damage was too extensive to repair. I'm sorry."

Stephens bit back another curse, his rising anger choking his throat, making him unable to speak. It was Montoya who assured the doctor they'd do their best and thanked him, turning back to Stephens when the man disappeared quickly.

"Gerry," she said, resting a hand on his shoulder as she studied the back of his head, standing a pace behind. He raised a hand to ward off her concern, and they stood for a long moment in silence. Montoya broke it first. "Gerry," she said again.

"No, Renee," he practically growled, turning back to her. "This has gone too far. Everything is falling apart, we've got officers dropping like flies, and we're no closer to finding the asshole who's doing this. Just know that we've got a fucking madman with a Makarov in his hands, taking us out one at a time. Our people are dying, other people are dying, the mayor's breathing down my neck and we don't have a name or a motive or even a fucking suspect! Damn it!" He twisted and let his fist fly, striking the wall with all his strength. An instant passed, and the pain caused him to stop, his anger slowly melting away, leaving only weariness in the sudden slump of his posture.

"Feel better?" Montoya asked.

"No. Worse." He sighed. "I feel like I'm stabbing in the dark and trying to hit whatever the hell I can. We're better than this, better than some psycho with a gun. Jim trusted us, and we're letting him down. And I'm to the point where I don't know what the hell to do about it."

"We keep trying. The Commissioner would rip us both a new one if he heard that speech you just made."

"I know," Stephens said wryly.

"So here's what we're going to do. You're going to go home, and you're going to get some sleep. Bullock and I are both in today, we'll start going over the leads again. There's gotta be something we're missing, and all we have to do is find it. But you're exhausted, and you're no good to anyone like that."

"Montoya, I can't just lounge around in bed for a day."

"Yes you can. And you're going to. We'll cover for you. You're not scheduled anyway."

"Renee…"

"No arguments," she said. "Go home." Finally, Stephens nodded, not really feeling the desire to fight with her. He knew from experience he would lose anyway, acting commissioner or no.

"All right, but I'll be back in again for the early shift tomorrow."

"I'll see you then and call you immediately if we come up with anything case-breaking today."

"Thanks." He ran his hand through his hair. "I'll see you tomorrow." Turning, he went down the hall in the opposite direction Montoya did. He got into the elevator, and after a moment's indecision pressed the button which would let him off at the ICU.


	12. Chapter 12

**Title**: Criminal Acts (12/19)  
**Author**: StargazerNataku  
**Rating**: PG  
**Genre**: Drama  
**Characters**: Detective Gerry Stephens, Renee Montoya, Jim Gordon, Batman  
Summary: Even after twenty years in the Gotham City police department and there were some cases that never got easier. It began with an overdose…and continued with some optimism.

**A/N: **I keep forgetting to thank my awesometastic beta gaudy_night. So here's to her, for putting up with my chapter-spam and helping me with ideas and plot and everything. More apologies for the delay. I've been rewriting the ending, since wrenches were thrown into the plot which, while providing for a better story (I hope) require extensive re-editing of chapters, writing new ones, and planning for the eventual sequel I'll have to provide so y'all don't kill me for leaving this where it's going to end. With that…

X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X

**Chapter 12**

The soft sunlight of early morning was streaming gently into the small kitchen in the Stephens' home, already illuminating the room enough for Gerry Stephens to read the newspaper while he drank his morning cup of coffee, his empty cereal bowl already pushed to the side to make room for the sports section. He was midway through the coffee and the box scores when the door to the kitchen opened and Jimmy Gordon came in, dressed but hair still ruffled and unkempt from sleep. "Morning, Jimmy," he said, folding up the paper. "Want some breakfast?"

"Sure," he said.

"Well, we've got options for you," he told the boy, getting to his feet and crossing to the cupboard, which he opened. "We have…Honey Nut Cheerios, Frosted Mini Wheats, or Rice Crispies. And toast, I can make that without accidentally burning down the kitchen."

"I guess the Cheerios." Stephens pulled the box out of the cupboard and took a bowl from the one immediately adjacent.

"Milk?"

"Yeah, please." Stephens crossed to the refrigerator and pulled out the milk, nearly dropping it in surprise when the house phone started ringing. He frowned and glanced at the clock, then crossed the kitchen and took it off the wall quickly to avoid waking those still sleeping upstairs. "Hello?" he said, feeling Jimmy's eyes on his back as he waited for an answer on the other end of the phone. "Yes, this is Detective Stephens…she's still in bed, I can get her if it's important…all right. Just a minute." He set the phone down on the counter. "I'll be back in a minute, Jimmy," he said before hurrying from the room.

Upstairs he first retrieved the cordless phone from the cradle in the master bedroom before he knocked on Barbara's door. He had to knock twice before he heard shuffling inside and footsteps coming towards the door. "Gerry?" she asked, tying her robe around her waist and blinking herself awake.

"The hospital's on the phone," he told her, offering her the phone as her face set into grim lines. "They want to speak with you."

"All right," she said, pressing the button to accept the call as she re-entered the bedroom and closed the door. Stephens went back downstairs immediately and set the kitchen phone back on its cradle as he glanced to Jimmy, who had put his own cereal together and put the milk away.

"Sorry about that," he said, sitting down at the table again and pulling his coffee towards him, distracted by the thought of the conversation occurring upstairs.

"It was the hospital, wasn't it. No one else would call Mom this early," Jimmy said.

"It was, yes." There was a long silence as Jimmy stared into his half-full bowl while Stephens sat across from him at a loss for words. The boy finally took another bite and chewed it slowly, as if it took great effort, each crunch loud in the silent kitchen. As footsteps became apparent coming down the stairs, he looked up at Gerry, fear flashing in his eyes for a moment before the door to the kitchen opened and Barbara appeared.

"Mom?" Jimmy asked, unable to keep the worry from his face, noting the tears glimmering unshed in his mother's eyes as she knelt by his chair and put a hand on his knee. She took a deep breath before she spoke, releasing tension on the exhale.

"Your dad woke up early this morning, Jimmy," she said. "The doctor said he's for sure going to get better. It may take a long time, but he'll be fine. We can go see him later." The boy threw his arms around his mother's neck as Stephens slumped back in his chair in relief, the tension he had scarcely been aware of feeling bleeding from him at the thought of his friend out of danger.

"Can we go see him today?" Jimmy was asking, and Barbara smiled.

"Of course, honey."

"Will he be awake when we do?"

"He might be. But he's still going to be very tired, and he's going to sleep a lot. It may be a few days before you're able to talk to him. But don't let that worry you, Jimmy, okay?" He nodded against her shoulder, and then pulled away. "I'm gonna go shower and get ready so I can look nice for Dad."

"Okay, honey. Just don't be in there too long."

"Yeah," he said, jumping to his feet and racing out of the room and up the stairs, his cereal forgotten on the table. Barbara and Stephens sat for a long moment in silence before Gerry rose.

"Coffee?" he asked.

"Please," Barbara answered, and he prepared a cup, setting it down on the table in front of her. "Thanks." She took a few sips, then glanced to him. "I know you and Jim are really close, and I know this has been hard for you," she said. "But thank you for letting us stay here."

"There was never another option in my mind," he answered truthfully.

"And I appreciate that more than anything else. This situation…I don't know how I could have gotten through it without you and Jess helping me out. It isn't any easier just because we're divorced. The kids…"

"I know, Barbara. It's a shit situation, but it's getting better."

"Yes," she said. For a moment, neither spoke, sipping their coffee in silence. Then, Barbara again broke the silence. "Babs and Jimmy have already been out of school for weeks. I've tried to help them keep up, but…now that Jim's going to be okay, I need to put some serious thought into going home."

"Yeah," he finally said.

"We won't go immediately," she said. "I want to talk to the doctor first."

"Well, me and Jess, Montoya and Bullock will make sure Jim's well taken care of when you do go."

"I know." She looked to him. "Thank you."

He nodded, glancing at the clock. "I have to get to work," he said, rising to his feet. "If Jess's up I'll tell her the good news. I'm going to put it around the MCU too, if you don't mind."

"No I don't," Barbara answered, going back to her coffee as he rose to his feet and left the kitchen, feeling good about going to work for the first time in weeks.

X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X

Bruce shut one of his files, pulling up another, continuing to skim the case information both he and the police department had gathered, finding nothing but more dead ends and frustration, the television playing the morning news at half volume in the background. He set another analysis to run just as the television volume went automatically to full. He turned, knowing the computer had caught some of the words he had programmed it to catch, allowing his attention to be divided. One of the reporters, standing outside of the rebuilt Gotham General, was just beginning her report as he shifted his focus, waiting impatiently for her to continue.

"Thank you, Christine. This morning, GCN learned from police spokeswoman Greta Devine that Police Commissioner James Gordon, in a coma since being shot during an assassination attempt three weeks ago, regained consciousness overnight. When asked to elaborate, Devine merely said that he was resting comfortably and that his condition has been downgraded from critical to serious. She concluded that more information would be released as available, but that all indicators at this time are that, barring further setbacks, Commissioner Gordon should make a full recovery. We'll continue coverage as we get more information. In the meantime, back to the studio."

Bruce turned the television off, leaning his head onto the back of the chair, letting out the breath he had not realized he was holding. Relief flooded through him as he sat for a long moment in silence, his frustrations forgotten for thankfulness. Finally, he rose and went to the elevator in order to return to the main part of the manor. Once upstairs, Bruce made his way to Wayne Manor's spacious kitchen. Opening the door, he found Alfred sitting at the table in the room, making the week's grocery list. When he opened the door, Alfred turned to him with a nod. "I haven't started lunch yet, sir, though I can if you'd like," he said.

"That's fine, Alfred," Bruce told the older man. "Have you seen the news?"

"No, sir, I haven't."

"Gordon came out of it last night."

"Well that's very good news indeed, sir," Alfred said, sounding relieved. "No need for any more of your guilt."

"Alfred…"

"I know full well you've taken responsibility on yourself," Alfred said, laying aside the pen and the list.

"Alfred…"

"I'm turning into a bloody broken record," the butler muttered. "Just once, Master Bruce, I wish you'd take what I say to heart."

"I do, Alfred. But I should have been able to do more. I just stood there, I didn't react and I could have."

"Everyone thinks that, Master Wayne, and it is high time you stop letting it weigh so heavy on you. If you feel like you could do more, do it now."

"What am I supposed to do?"

"What you think is right, sir."

"What's right is finding the bastard who's doing this, and the guy's good. I've been patrolling for him for weeks, and he still manages to get past me. And the police." Bruce ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "It's astounding, considering he's never been in trouble before."

"You're sure?"

"I've searched the files of every major police department on the East Coast, Alfred, and all of the minor ones in this area. I even searched the DMV for matches on an ID card; nothing. It's like the guy with that face doesn't exist."

"Well, sir, you'll break it eventually."

"You sound so certain, Alfred."

"I am," Alfred answered. "Firstly, because you've never once given up on anything you felt you had to do. Secondly, because you've almost caught him twice now, and saved several lives in the process. That patrolman from two nights ago would have died, you said."

"His partner _did_ die, Alfred."

"Not by anything you did, Master Bruce. You know that as well as I, even if you're too stubborn to admit it."

"Alfred…"

"Would you like some lunch, sir? I was thinking some of the chicken salad I made this morning would taste exceptionally well on such a warm day."

Bruce studied his butler for a long moment before he nodded. "All right. Bring it to me in the cave. I'll be working."

"Of course, sir." He rose from the table as Bruce turned to go back down the hall to the study and into the cave.

X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X

The sun was still visible through the slats in the venetian blinds covering the windows in Gordon's room when he awoke, awareness coming slowly as he blinked and tiredly took stock of his condition. His entire body felt heavy, as though he was being pressed into the mattress by unseen forces, save his stomach and shoulder which ached dully under the influence of the painkillers which muddled his mind. Weariness made it a fight to keep his eyes open, and he turned his head to try to find something on which to focus, seeing only hints of bright blue sky through a crack in the blinds. Absently he wondered what day it was.

He turned his head back so he was looking at the ceiling again, unable to put the effort into keeping his head turned. Against his will his eyes fell closed and he slept again, waking to a small hand pressing his hand, a hesitant whispered voice falling lightly on his ears. "Dad?" He forced his eyes open and tilted his head to focus on the boy standing beside the bed.

His son's eyes widened and he threw himself forward, carefully hugging his father around the tubes and wires and wounds. Unable to speak for the tube in his throat, Gordon used every ounce of his strength to move his hand a few inches across the bed to rest it against his son's as the boy sobbed into his chest. He closed his own eyes as tears came into them, remembering his final despair as he lay on the pavement, convinced he was dying.

"Jimmy, honey," came a woman's voice he didn't recognize. "You need to be careful, okay?" The boy reluctantly withdrew and Gordon opened his eyes again. "Evening, commissioner," the nurse said as she checked his lines and tubes. "Welcome back to the waking world." She moved to the other side of the bed as Stephens entered the room, a smile crossing his face to see him awake. The man moved to stand immediately behind Jimmy, who had pulled a chair over to the bed so he could hold his father's hand.

"Hey, Jim," he said. "Good to see you awake, isn't it, Jimmy?" The boy nodded. "Babs isn't feeling well, she's got a bit of a cold," he explained.

"So Mom stayed home with her. Man, Babs'll be mad she missed this."

"Well, we'll tell her though, won't we Jimmy? All the stuff you'd want her to hear. Won't we?" Jimmy nodded and Gordon moved his head into a slight nod to indicate his thanks.

"We'll probably get that tube taken out tomorrow," the nurse told him as she finished her check. "Make it easier, won't it. Talking will still be difficult for a few days but it's better than nothing. I'll be back later, then, you three have a nice visit." She left and Jimmy lay his head down on the bed.

"I'm glad you're awake, Dad," he muttered and Jim again forced his hand to move to he could brush his fingers against his son's hair, closing his eyes and wishing such a small movement was not such an effort. "Babs was really scared you wouldn't."

"But he did, Jimmy," Stephens said since Gordon could not. "Everything's all right now."

"Yeah," he grinned at his father, who was fighting rather valiantly to keep his eyes open. "You're tired, Dad? Should we go?" Gordon gave his head a small shake, and Stephens turned to the child. "You know, I think I left my briefcase at the nurse's station, you mind running to get it, Jimmy?" He shook his head and got to his feet, casting a glance at his father before disappearing out the door.

"We only got a minute," Stephens said, "But I wanted to let you know the investigation into all this is still ongoing, but we've got enough security that you don't need to worry about anything except getting better. We're all on it, all right? And we're watching Barbara and the kids like hawks." Gordon gave another slight nod as Jimmy came back in with the briefcase.

"There we are," Stephens said, taking it from him. "Thanks, Jimmy. He set it on the table in the corner and opened it, pulling out a few sheets of paper."

"Babs drew these for you since she couldn't come herself," he said, holding them up for Gordon to see the childish drawings. "Pretty talented for her age. She wanted to be sure you knew she was thinking about her."

"We'll thank her for you, Dad," Jimmy said, and Gordon squeezed his son's hand in acknowledgement. "She did about ten of them before she decided to send these two. I…"

He stopped speaking as a nurse stepped in. "Detective Stephens, there's a phone call for you. It's Detective Bullock, and he says it's urgent."

"Okay," he said, getting to his feet. "Never a dull moment, eh, Jim?" He shook his head. "I'll be back in a few minutes." Jim sat and listened to his son speak while they waited, the boy's hand resting on his, Jimmy's childish voice breaking through the beeping of machinery and the heavy, pained weariness. For a moment he just was, letting the words wash over him, his eyes studying his son's face, sending silent thanks that he was still able to have this.

When Stephens stepped in his face was serious. "I'm sorry, Jimmy, but we have to go." Gordon looked up at his oldest friend. "Detective Bullock needs my help on a case."

"But…" Jimmy protested, glancing to his father. "Okay." He squeezed Gordon's hand. "Can I come see you again tomorrow, Dad, please?" Jim nodded as best he could. "Good, I'll try to bring Babs too. She wants to see you." Gordon nodded again and tried a smile as his son slipped from the room.

"Our murderer struck again," Stephens said. "Sorry to cut this short, Jim. Don't worry, I'll get Jimmy home before I meet up with Harvey." Gordon nodded again. "You get some sleep. Everything's in good hands." He gave his boss a little salute. "Don't worry about anything. I'll see you soon." He picked up his briefcase and left the room.

Exhausted even with the short visit, Gordon glanced at the drawings Jimmy had propped up on the table beside his bed, and smiled even as his eyes began to fall closed again. He was asleep in moments, the heavy weight of painkillers and weakness pulling him down into a dreamless sleep.


	13. Chapter 13

**Title**: Criminal Acts (13/?)  
**Author**: StargazerNataku  
**Rating**: PG  
**Genre**: Drama  
**Characters**: Detective Gerry Stephens, Renee Montoya, Jim Gordon, Batman  
Summary: Even after twenty years in the Gotham City police department and there were some cases that never got easier. It began with an overdose…and continued with answers.  
**A/N: **Chapter 13, folks. :-) After my final I'm going to finish the rewriting process; my goal is to have the fic finished and posted by the time I start spring semester (January 18). So we have a timeline. Yell at me if I fail, okay, everyone? And again, thanks to my awesometastic beta, gaudy_night.

_**Chapter 13**_

Stephens bit back a yawn as the elevator doors opened onto the MCU and stepped out, aware of the normal hum of conversation and doubly aware when it cut off abruptly as he appeared, Montoya and Bullock steps behind. He looked at the other officers, who were suddenly trying to look busy, purposefully ignoring their presence in the room. "Something I need to know about?" he asked into the silent bullpen. No one responded. "Because I'm not stupid and it seems like there is." There was a long stretch of silence before one of the younger members of the squad spoke up.

"Lombardi and Alcott were just telling us about their beat last night, that's all, sir."

"Yeah? Must be pretty exciting if you all are listening so intently."

"It was, sir."

"Well, Lombardi, why was it so exciting?" The man straightened and glanced to his partner.

"We got into a bit of trouble, and a…what did Allen call it?"

"A _good Samaritan_ helped us out of it. That's what we're calling it, isn't it, detective?" Stephens' eyes narrowed and after a moment, he shook his head.

"You can call it whatever you want. But remember that whatever you say, or suppose, could have an adverse effect on the Commissioner. He's only been conscious for seventy-two hours and he's got more important things to worry about. Got it?" There were nods and under-breath commentary. "Now we've got work to do. Get to it." He cut through the room and made his way to his desk.

"Nice, Gerry, way to stir the rumor mill," Montoya commented.

"Yeah, well, I wasn't built to deal with shit like that. I'll be glad when Jim's back and I don't have to."

"We all will," Bullock agreed, seating himself at his desk and pulling some papers closely to him.

"And I'll be glad when we get this son of a bitch," Montoya commented, looking at the papers in front of her. "He's been busy, but no hits last night or the night before."

"Well, lets just pick up where we left off yesterday," he said as his desk phone rang. He glared at it for an instant before he looked to Monotya and Bullock. "If this is the mayor giving me shit, I'm going to quit, just so you both have fair warning." He took the handset of the receiver. "Stephens…really? This morning? Think there's something to it?" He listened in silence. "We'll check it out, thanks for the tip." He hung up, getting immediately to his feet, and looked to the other two detectives. "Our perp may have been spotted this morning. Come on, Montoya. If this pans out, we may be able to get the bastard." She nodded, and as quickly as they had arrived at the MCU, they were headed out again.

X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X

Stephens pulled up outside the ramshackle diner tucked onto a dirty corner just off the docks. "Seems like a fitting place for a rat," Montoya commented.

"And a safe one. Almost no one around here would turn anyone else in, because a lot of them are wanted themselves." Montoya nodded. "Not a good neighborhood to be a cop in either."

"Nope," she said, her hand going to the door handle. "You said it was the owner of the diner that called us?"

"Yeah. May have had him in for breakfast this morning." He turned off the ignition and opened his door. "Let's see what we can get." He got out of the car, keeping a casual but careful eye on the neighborhood around him as he and Montoya crossed to the dilapidated door and entered. He gave the place a cursory inspection, noted the empty booths down the wall, save the last where two young women—probably prostitutes by their appearance, his mind added—were having their morning coffee. The counter was equally empty, save for an older man sitting at the end by the cash register. He glanced to them as they entered and crossed to him, stubbing out the cigarette he'd been savoring in the ashtray at his elbow.

"Menu?" he asked, his voice roughened by smoking, a faded Irish accent twisting the words slightly.

"Just coffee, if you don't mind," Stephens said.

"Two?"

"Please," Montoya added, slipping onto one of the stools at the counter. Stephens took the place beside her and waited while the man got out two mugs, chipped about the bottom but spotlessly clean, and filled them.

"Are you Mr. O'Sullivan?" Stephens asked when the man had put the coffee pot back down.

"Who's asking?"

"I'm Detective Stephens, and this is my partner Detective Montoya. I believe you called in a possible lead on an ongoing investigation."

"Oh, aye, I did," he said. "Was an odd thing, this morning. Got a guy, always comes in and has a cup of coffee and some toast. Can't afford much more than that, odds are, most in this neighborhood can't. Started coming in maybe awhile back, never saw him before that, but he's been pretty regular since. Comes in maybe once a week. Sometimes more, sometimes less. This morning was no different, though I had that old TV on like I usually don't. Wanted to catch the Knights' score from last night." He motioned to a small, ancient television perched on the counter at the end of the bar, one broken rabbit ear drooping forlornly in front of the screen.

"All right?"

"Anyway, they cut into sports with that special report that the commissioner had woke up, and this guy gets all upset about it, actually cursed up about it. That made me take notice, and I got a bit of a look at him, and thought 'well that's odd, that.' Particularly when he left, obviously angry, after throwing a ten down for a cup of coffee. That's a big tip. Well then I noticed…" He went behind the bar and lifted a dilapidated ten dollar bill from beside the register. He laid it on the counter. Montoya whistled when she caught a glance.

"Looks like blood," Stephens said.

"That's what I thought," O'Sullivan said. "Seemed odd, all told."

"We're going to need to take that with us," Stephens said, drawing an evidence bag from the pocket of his coat. "Do you know any personal details about the customer?"

"Not really. Except…well, he was in one day and a guy came in to meet him. Called him 'Crevan,' never asked because it wasn't my business then, but that's his name I think. First or last or fake, I dunno."

"Crevan…" Stephens said, a frown creasing his face.

"What'd he look like?" Montoya asked.

"Well, he's got a buzz cut, what little hair he did have's kinda grayish blonde, brown eyes, a real sharp nose. I'd say he's probably in his thirties, though that's a hard guess. Was wearing jeans, a black jacket, and a red shirt. They're all pretty threadbare; only thing ever changes he wears is the t-shirt. Sometimes it's blue. Not much to him, all told. Wouldn't have noticed him at all if he hadn't acted so funny."

"Would you be able to recognize him if you saw him again?" Montoya asked.

"Aye, likely so."

"Was there anything else?" she asked.

"He was favorin' his arm, his right one. Moved a few times like it was hurtin' him."

Montoya glanced at Stephens, who looked to O'Sullivan again. "Where was it hurting him?"

"Upper, right up around here." He tapped his arm halfway up his bicep. "Took the coat off for a bit and he had it bandaged up under the t-shirt, I think. Was visible when he moved his arm sometimes."

"All right," Stephens said, getting to his feet, his eyes troubled. "Here's my card, Mr. O'Sullivan. Please call me if you remember anything else."

"Sure will. You think it's the same guy you're looking for?"

"It's too early to tell," Stephens said. "Thank you for your help. We'll be in touch."

"Aye," the man said, and went back around the counter to his stool as Stephens and Montoya went back out to the car. They got in, Stephens sticking the key into the ignition though he paused for a long moment without turning it.

"You okay, partner?" Montoya asked him finally.

"I've heard that name before, Renee. I can't place it, but I've heard it."

"You sure? It's not exactly a common one."

"Yes." He finally turned the key, the car coming to life. Turning on the signal he pulled out into the street and headed back towards downtown and the MCU. He weaved in and out of the traffic, driving as quickly as he could easily justify, wishing he could just turn on a set of sirens and get everyone out of his way. Waiting at a red light, fingers tapping impatiently on the steering wheel, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to look as a young blonde woman and an older man stepped into the street, hurrying to make it across before the flashing "Don't Walk" sign turned steady and traffic started moving the other direction. "Come _on_, Dad!" she called back over her shoulder. His eyes widened suddenly as memory struck, remembering a frigid night in a dingy apartment some months before.

"Christ," he cursed. "Damn it to hell, it's been right there in front of us the entire time!"

"Gerry?" Montoya asked with a frown.

"I think I know who we're looking for. Damn it, it makes perfect sense!" The light turned green and Stephens accelerated immediately, driving even faster than he had been through the streets, his hands clenched tightly on the steering wheel. At his side, Montoya kept shooting him semi-concerned glances but she wisely said nothing, not even when they were parked and Stephens jumped out of the car and ran for the elevators. Hurrying to keep up, Montoya barely made it in before the elevator doors were closing and Stephens was jamming the button for the MCU.

"Stop a minute," she said. "What's going on?" Stephens did not answer, instead he darted out into the bullpen and crossed the room quickly to his desk, pushing several other cops out of the way as Montoya followed, making apologies as best she could while keeping up with her partner.

At his desk, he unlocked and opened the drawer and yanked out a pair of files. "Here," he said, opening one of them and shoving it at her. "Look."

"But this is the file for…"

"Exactly," Stephens interrupted. "Look." He pointed to the top of the first page of the file.

"Crevan Br…I'll be damned."

"Plenty of motive for both the dealers, junkies, _and_ the cops, wouldn't you say? We gotta find this guy." He opened the second file and quickly copied the address there onto another piece of paper. "Here. We'll start here. Come on." Without another word he was moving back towards the elevator at a rush. Rolling her eyes, Montoya closed the folder and set it aside before following her partner.


	14. Chapter 14

**Title**: Criminal Acts (14/?)  
**Author**: StargazerNataku  
**Rating**: PG  
**Genre**: Drama  
**Characters**: Detective Gerry Stephens, Renee Montoya, Jim Gordon, Batman  
**Summary**: Even after twenty years in the Gotham City police department and there were some cases that never got easier. It began with an overdose…and continued with a new understanding.  
**A/N**: Thanks to my beta gaudy_night, and all my readers who have made it with me thus far!

_**Chapter 14**_

Bruce Wayne stood outside the door to Jim Gordon's hospital room, listening to the rise and fall of voices inside. He could barely hear the words, but he did not have to really; he would get the full conversation later once he listened to the recording that was currently in progress inside the room. There would be time for that later, he knew, glancing down the hall to note a nurse turning the corner. He did not hesitate, but knocked instead. Everyone knew that Bruce Wayne never hesitated, even in a situation such as this.

The voices stopped and there were footsteps. An instant later the door opened and Stephens was revealed on the other side. Bruce put on his widest, most cheerful playboy grin and spoke. "Detective, taking advantage of visiting hours too?" he asked.

"Yeah," Stephens answered. They studied each other for a moment.

"Let him in, Gerry," Gordon said from the bed, a slight rebuke in his voice. The man stepped aside and Bruce stepped past him, moving to one of the chairs set beside Gordon's bed. His gaze took the man in carefully, noting the weariness and the shadow of pain in the deep lines of his face.

"I've gotta get back, Commish," Stephens said from near the door. "Have to close up this case we're working on. I'll try to meet with our…colleague later, and I'll drop by tomorrow, okay?"

"Sure, Gerry, thanks." Stephens nodded and the door closed behind him. Wayne and Gordon were left staring at each other for a moment, before Bruce smiled and set the package he was carrying on the table attached to the bed. "What's that?" Gordon asked him.

"Well, Commissioner, I imagined you'd be getting pretty bored, so I just brought a few things to keep you busy while you're out of action." He drew a mini, portable DVD player from the bag. "And I got some movies too, but I didn't know what kind you liked so I just got a selection…I got some action movies, some dramas, some comedy…oh, and _Casablanca _and _The Maltese Falcon_. Those are courtesy of Alfred; he seems to think that everyone ought to like those old movies…But they're all in there for you, so it'll be easier for you to kill time while you're getting better. I was laid up once from this car crash and I went practically insane, and that was only for a few days, I can't imagine how you're doing it."

"Thank you, Mr. Wayne. It's very thoughtful of you, and will be very helpful to me." Bruce grinned, every inch the thankful playboy.

"No, Commissioner, thank _you_. I owe you a lot more than just a teeny DVD player and some movies. I do understand when someone's done me a huge favor, and I do understand gratitude."

"It was little enough I did," Gordon answered.

Bruce felt the 'Brucie' mask cracking just slightly but spoke anyway. "No, it was a great deal, Commissioner. You very nearly died, and I didn't. Just a little scratch, and from how badly _that_ hurt, I can't imagine how badly _you_ must hurt. I had to come down and thank you."

"You're welcome," Gordon said, studying the man carefully, almost surprised.

"Was I wrong to come? You seem confused."

"Well, it…"

"Not really in my character to notice, is it?" Bruce gave a little laugh. "I may not be the smartest man alive, Jim, but I know when someone's done me a huge favor, and I can tell when I very nearly had something…terrible happen. I know enough about life for that."

"I know you do," Gordon finally said. Their eyes met and the gaze held for a long moment, before Bruce turned away.

"I guess you do, don't you. I never thanked you for that, either." He sighed. "I came today because I felt it was time to try to repay old debts with the new," Bruce said. "See how you were. If everything is…" He hesitated a moment before giving a half smile. For a moment, suddenly and surprisingly, Gordon watched the mask slip, and he no longer saw the playboy. He saw instead the terrified and grieving eight-year-old in every line and feature of the billionaire's face. "Okay. I would have come sooner, but…" he paused, his eyes closed and there was a moment of silence before the billionaire's smile returned and the pain disappeared from his eyes, smoothing the planes of his handsome face. "Well, you know how it is. A little here, a little there…time goes crazy, and you don't want to be in the way."

Gordon looked at the man seriously for perhaps the first time, and then nodded. They sat for a long moment in silence, both trapped in memories of different sidewalks, Wayne lost twenty years past, Gordon only a few weeks, remembering the look of horror on Wayne's face as he lay bleeding, dying. He cleared his throat carefully, still sore from the breathing tubes, and watched Wayne open his mouth to speak again. Hoping he would, Gordon was disappointed when the man shut it again, but he did not blame him; Gordon could not think of anything to say either. There was a long moment of awkward silence; they were two very, very different men and it was always hard to find common ground despite or perhaps because of the horrors of their shared past. "You are feeling all right?" Wayne finally asked, somewhat lamely, and Gordon had to laugh, even though it hurt. Wayne looked up with a confused but pleased smile containing more honesty in it than usual, and Gordon bit back a comment on the awkward nature of the conversation.

"I was shot twice, Wayne," he said instead. "Feeling all right is rather distant at this point." A look crossed over Wayne's face, and Gordon felt a sudden swell of guilty discomfort. "I'm sorry, that probably…" The terrified looks of boy and man merged into one face in his mind, hard to ignore and even harder to avoid.

"No, it's all right," Bruce said. They sat silent for another long minute before Gordon, despite the pain, gave a little chuckle. "What?" Bruce asked, confused.

"Is this as awkward for you as it is for me?" he asked, his tone amused and even friendly.

"We could always talk about…" Wayne searched for something, anything to say.

"Sports?" Gordon asked hopefully. "They say you play polo..." The other man smiled as though laughing at a private joke.

"I do," he answered easily before launching into a short anecdote that was supposed to be hilarious but ended up being only vaguely amusing to Gordon. Mostly about Wayne ending up in a Jacuzzi with the majority of the female French national equestrian team after a match, it was a convoluted story about the women's sympathy over a spectacular fall off his horse.

"I used to play football," Gordon said after he laughed politely at the reminiscence. "But none of our games ever ended like that."

"More's the pity," Wayne said with a laugh. "There was this one girl—Giselle was it? No, Gabrielle. No, that's not it either. Might have been Georgette…" He paused, thinking deeply. "Well, whatever her name was, she was fan-tastic. She could do this thing…"

"Enough, Wayne," Gordon commented, but his tone was relaxed. "I don't think I need to know."

"Probably not. It really should have been illegal, but I don't want to give you any ideas, because it was _well_ worth any man's time."

"I don't make the laws, I just enforce them."

"Touché." The silence was more comfortable this time as they sat together. "Did they say when you'll be released?" Wayne finally asked.

"They're not sure," Gordon says. "But it will probably be another six to eight weeks at least."

"That long?"

"That long. I'm not too upset about it. The longer I stay here, the more chance they have to catch the man who put me here in the first place. And the better I'll be when I do finally get home. It'll be hard; going to have to find somewhere to stay."

"Why?"

"I live alone."

"Alone? Aren't you married? The paper mentioned your children…"

"Divorced, Mr. Wayne. Went through over a year ago. Barbara and the kids are back in Chicago now."

"Oh." A pause. "What happened?"

"You sure don't have qualms about asking loaded personal questions."

"Sorry." The million-watt smile returned. "I just think it would take a foolish woman to walk out."

"On me?" Gordon laughed, but there was no bitterness in it. "Wayne, she had plenty of reasons to go, all of them good. She worried a lot about me never coming home, what effect that would have on the kids when—there was never any 'if' in Barbara's mind—it did happen. Then…when it was our children in danger…" He stopped, saw the cold steel of the gun pointing at his son's temple, watched Dent pulling him out of Barbara's arms, and saw his son's pleading face, begging his father to do something to make him safe…

"You must miss them."

"All the time," Gordon managed, forcing away the memories. "But they're safer there."

"Why didn't you give it up, go with them?"

"There are days, especially lately, I feel like I should have."

"Why didn't you?" Gordon was quiet for a long time, thinking on his response. It was a question he had asked himself nearly daily in the year since he had come home to an empty house, and his nightmares were always the answer. Nightmares of this man as a child, clutching his father's coat in his grief, a harsh reminder of what he had lost to a mugger with a gun. Of the first murder case Gordon worked as a detective, two eleven year old girls who'd been kidnapped, raped and asphyxiated on their way home from school. They never had found who was responsible. Killings, rapes, assaults…murdered cops, children who lost parents and parents who lost children, solved and unsolved, that he had worked. Gordon knew as well as Barbara did that these things had a deep impact, even though most individual cases merged together in his memory over the years to become a memory of Gotham alone: dark, bloody, hopeless, demanding, pained.

"I have the belief…the hope…that if I can stop a murder here or a drug deal there, I'll save lives. I'll make this city a better place, somehow, and people won't have to deal with the aftermath of hell on earth. That maybe, Gotham can be saved, and everyone can have a little bit of hope." Gordon kept his gaze squarely on the bed, not at Wayne, and tried to hide his sudden surprise when Wayne spoke with a momentary crack in his pleasant tenor voice. He should not have been; he knew that some things struck close to home even with the most seemingly carefree billionaire playboys. Jim Gordon knew firsthand that Bruce Wayne was all too familiar with the dark side of Gotham City.

"That's an honorable goal, Commissioner," he said. "I think it will pay off in the end."

"Yeah?" Gordon asked. "There are days I'm not so sure." Wayne gave him a slight smile.

"It already has, Jim." Gordon nodded; he knew that, knew the situation in Gotham was better now than before, especially since Batman started patrolling her dark streets. But there was still, and always would be, the frustration of not being able to solve all the problems at once, to not have to be in a position where his children could lose their father. "Your children should be damned proud of you, if they're not already." Bruce got to his feet. "I should let you rest, I've stayed too long and you look absolutely exhausted."

"I appreciate that, Mr. Wayne." The man's playboy grin returned and he inclined his head to Gordon before slipping out of the room. Gordon closed his eyes, so surprised at the glimpse under the man's mask he wondered momentarily if the whole thing had been the painkillers talking and that Bruce Wayne had not just been there, understanding. When the nurse came in a moment later to check on him, however, blushing beet red and giggling, Gordon knew what it meant. He puzzled that over for only a few minutes before fatigue overtook him and he slipped into sleep.


	15. Chapter 15

**Title**: Criminal Acts (15/?)  
**Author**: StargazerNataku  
**Rating**: PG  
**Genre**: Drama  
**Characters**: Detective Gerry Stephens, Renee Montoya, Jim Gordon, Batman  
Summary: Even after twenty years in the Gotham City police department and there were some cases that never got easier. It began with an overdose…and continued with a kidnapping.  
**A/N**: Thanks again to my beta, gaudy_night. And to my wonderful fiancé, who also took his time to read this. Please enjoy. ^_^

_**Chapter 15**_

"_We have a suspect now. Things are starting to come together; we're going to find him and get him off the streets."_

"_Told my former partner yet?"_

"_No," _Stephens' voice came across the recording, and Batman caught the frustration in the detective's voice. "_We can get this guy without him, Jim. We've got a name and we've started searching places he may be hiding."_

"_You don't approve."_

"_No," Stephens answered. "I don't like his methods. This relationship or whatever you want to call it is one-sided, Jim. He gets what he wants and to hell with us."_

"_It isn't like that. He's a little brusque, but…"_

"_He snuck in here one night, Jim. Risked your reputation and mine for a stupid pair of glasses! And how he knew your prescription is another issue I really don't want to think about."_

"_I trust him. He saved my son's life."_

"_I don't deny that he seems to be on the right side, Jim, but anyone who takes that much without giving anything back…" _

"_He gives more than you know in return, Gerry. It may not be to us, not specifically, but he's done more for this city than I could hope to accomplish in a decade. Look what he took on his shoulders after the Joker's rampage."_

"_It's a pain in the ass. Word's getting out, Jim. Patrolman Allen is convinced we're lying, Lombardi and Alcott too. And they're spreading it around, the rest of the department's hearing the rumors too. You can't keep this up forever, and then what? Everything you've fought and worked for will be destroyed. Once the truth gets out…"_

"_I'll take it as it comes. If it means that I go down to exonerate him, well…"_

"_You're willing to do that. To go that far for someone whose face you don't even know."_

"_Yes."_

"_Why, Jim? It's insane."_

"_He _chose_ me, Gerry. I don't know why and I probably never will, but I do know that I've seen him make a difference in this city. We're fighting for the same things, he can just be effective in ways we can't. His dedication to this city is not in question. I know you don't agree with me, but I trust him to do the right thing. I always have."_

"_Do you agree with the lie he made you tell? Do you honestly think it was for the best?" _There was a long silence on the tape, and the sound that next came was not the answer that Batman found himself wanting. It was the sound of a knock on the door, then footsteps, and Bruce Wayne's own cheerful voice addressing Stephens. "Damn it," Batman cursed, stopping the playback, trying to imagine what the Commissioner's response would have been for a moment. Then, glancing at the clock, he noted the time and rose, pulling his cowl over his features as he stood.

He put the systems into stand-by mode and turned instead to the car, receiving Stephens' subtle message, though he was unaware if the detective knew it would be received. He knew about the video feed from the room, certainly, but not the audio necessarily. He knew Stephens would most likely be working late; there would be time enough to try to make contact. And if he was unable, there were other ways to find the information he wanted.

He jumped into the driver's seat, the vehicle rumbling to life underneath him, the sound echoing off the silent walls. He checked the in-dash cameras monitoring the road outside, seeing it was deserted as usual, before he put the car in gear and gunned down the cave exit, out the waterfall, and onto the access road.

It was not long before he had entered Gotham itself and parked the car in a dingy side alley, securing the vehicle carefully before taking to the rooftops. It took maybe twenty minutes before he was perched on a building opposite the MCU, stopping two muggings on the way, watching the roof access door, the police scanner chattering in his ear with the sort of run-of-the-mill violence that was common in Gotham. There was nothing that should need his immediate attention or Stephens'.

He spared a moment to glance at the clock adorning one of the nearby skyscrapers; it was nearly midnight, the city humming in the streets far below. He would wait until midnight, Batman decided, and then he would return to the streets for his regular patrol and attempt to contact Stephens a different way the next night. His gaze went back to the roof of the MCU, scanning the empty space as he waited. For a moment, gazing at the remains of the shattered floodlight, he wished the Joker incident had gone differently; he wished the silence and the secrecy unnecessary. He instead found himself remembering the early days of his crusade, Jim Gordon standing beside the floodlight, arms crossed, gaze sweeping the darkness of Gotham's night as he waited patiently for Batman to appear.

Tonight was far different. The remnants of the signal had been long swept away and the door from downstairs opening let Gerry Stephens out into the late spring evening instead of Jim Gordon. He shut the door behind him and crossed the roof to the side opposite the destroyed signal, leaning against the barrier at the edge. He stood, looking out over the city lights gleaming in the darkness, and Batman detected weariness in the hunch of his shoulders.

Shooting off his line, Batman swung silently to the roof where Stephens was standing, allowing his feet to make a soft noise as he landed. Stephens straightened immediately, turning to face him as he stepped into the half light of the rooftop. "Here," Stephens said, pulling an envelope out of the inner pocket of his coat. "Our suspect. He's a day laborer; at least he was before he started his gig as a serial killer. We're thinking he's hiding somewhere down along the docks. He's got no previous criminal record, though his brother was a drug dealer affiliated with the Chechen's group. The details are all there." Batman took the envelope and without looking at the contents, tucked it away. "We've checked all the obvious places and a bunch that aren't; wherever he is, he's hiding well. But we need to get this guy off the street. Had another dealer show up dead tonight, same M.O. of all the previous homicides. We can't say for certain until ballistics is done, technically, but I'd wager a year's salary it's the same guy."

"I'll see what I can get."

"Yeah, I know," Stephens said, and there was a pause, and he deliberately turned his back, looking out over the city.

"I'll contact you with anything I find," Batman rasped, and Stephens turned back to him in surprise that he was still standing there. "So you can bring them in." Then he took a step back, slowly and deliberately, and launched himself off the roof and into the darkness.

X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X

"We've got nothing here either," Montoya commented, aggravation leaking into her voice. "Gerry, this guy is ridiculous." She glanced over the file for what was probably the tenth time that day.

"Well the good news is that we're not due for a murder tonight," he commented. "He's settled down to one every four, five days or so, and we just had one last night."

"Positive thinking," Montoya commented dryly. "Right."

"We essentially have a man who spent his entire life on the wrong side of the poverty line. He's always lived in the bad neighborhoods, so he probably knows every single hole between twelfth and Schuster. It's going to take awhile. Particularly when we have a man who can't trust anybody and will keep to himself."

"For good reason. I heard through the grapevine that his brother's former co-workers in the Russian mob suspect he's the one behind the hits on their dealers and customers. To say they're unhappy about it is the understatement of the century. It's bringing increased police presence to their turf and it's scaring off the buyers."

Stephens sat back and glanced at his watch. "I told Jim I'd stop in during visiting hours this afternoon. You want to take an hour, come back to this with fresh minds?"

"Sure," Montoya said, closing the file open before her.

"Want to join me?"

"Nah, I have a few errands to run, but tell the Commish I'll stop by tomorrow."

"Sure," Stephens said, getting to his feet and putting on his suit jacket.

X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X

When Stephens stepped through the door into Gordon's hospital room he found the Commissioner propped carefully up in bed, awake and watching a film on a small DVD player set on the bed's tray table. Seeing Stephens, he smiled and paused the film, closing the player and pushing the tray aside. "How're you feeling today, Commish?" Stephens asked as he sat next to the bed.

"Best day in awhile, actually. They reduced the dosage on the painkillers, and I feel like I can actually think for the first time since…well, it been a month?"

"Almost."

"I think it made the kids feel better when they called last night, to actually talk to me and not me on drugs. They're settling back into school well, thankfully. Thanks again for letting them stay with you. I owe you one."

"You would do the same if it were me in that bed and Jess needing the support," Stephens said. "But if you're interested, you can repay me by coming back to work as soon as you're physically capable."

"Don't like the job?"

"Hell no," Stephens answered. "And Jess doesn't either. I had to promise her that I'd tell the mayor where to shove it if this went on too long, and as I'd rather not have to do that…"

"I'd better hurry up and get better," Gordon said with a slight chuckle.

"Exactly."

"Any luck on the investigation?"

"Not yet. I've brought in the heavy hitters on it like you requested. Hopefully they'll find something that we've missed. We've checked everywhere that makes sense, and nothing yet. The guy's really good at hiding."

"Yes he is," a voice said from the doorway. Stephens half turned in his chair and was reaching for his weapon even as he started to rise to his feet. "No, detective," Officer Hearne said, his own gun coming free of its holster; in an instant, it was pointing at Stephens' chest. "I wouldn't make me shoot if I was you, you might dodge but Gordon can't." Stephens' hands went slowly into the air.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asked.

"Take off your jacket."

"Wh…"

"Take off your jacket! I won't ask again." Stephens did as demanded. "Now your holster." He waited while Stephens did so. "Put it on the floor and push it over to me. Good." He picked it up, took Stephens' weapon, looping the holster over his shoulder. "Now, you're going to do the same with your cell phone, and then…" He motioned to the wheelchair that was in the room, ready to take the Commissioner to physical therapy. "You're going to help the good commissioner get into that, and then we're all going to take a little ride. Got it?"

"Hearne…"

"I can shoot you first, if you'd rather. One way or another, detective, Gordon's coming with me. Got it?"

"Gerry," Gordon said. "Do as he says."

"Jim…"

"Don't make a scene. We've got a hospital full of civilians. Just help me." Stephens nodded, glaring at Hearne before removing his cell from his pocket and sliding it over. He then slowly turned, moved to the wheelchair and took it to the bed as Hearne shut and barred the door.

"Quickly," the officer ordered, and Stephens met Gordon's gaze as he pulled off the leads for the heart monitor, then carefully drew out the IV. Almost immediately alarms started going off, and Hearne turned. "Quickly, fuck it!" he cursed, slamming the door shut. "I promise you I will shoot the first nurse that tries to come through that door if you don't hurry!"

"Good arm around my neck, Jim," Stephens said as he moved to pick Gordon up. "Get this over with." He lifted his boss, reflecting it was not as hard as he had expected; Gordon was thin from weeks in a coma and weak from inactivity. He bit back a gasp of pain as Stephens lifted, and he bit back an apology, setting the Commissioner down in wheelchair carefully. "Okay?" he asked, noting Gordon had gone pale, but his face was resolute.

"Fine," he answered over the alarms.

"Now," Hearne said. "This is how this is going to work. You," he said, looking to Stephens, "Are going to push the wheelchair out, and I'm going to follow you. You're going to keep anyone from trying to interfere or I start shooting. With both guns." He pulled Stephens' from its holster as the pounding began on the door. "I guarantee that I can kill at least three or four people before you can stop me, so I'd suggest cooperation. I don't have a problem with these people, just with you and him, and I won't hurt anyone who doesn't try to stop us. Got it?"

"Got it."

"We're going downstairs; there's a car waiting. You're going to get Gordon into it, and then you're going to get in yourself. There's no fighting, or arguments, or anything, or I guarantee you and him," he motioned to Gordon with the barrel of Stephens' duty weapon, "Are the first to die. Clear?"

"Crystal." Hearne stepped aside.

"Oh, and disarm the officers you're going to find on the other side of that door. Send the guns back into the room with their radios. After you, Detective."

Stephens took a firm grip on the handles of the wheelchair and pushed Gordon to the door, stepping forward to unlock it and open the door. On the other side waited two officers, their weapons out; one was reaching for his radio, but aborted the motion when Stephens appeared. "Detective!" Officer MacClean said, looking the man up and down. "Is everything all right?"

"No," Stephens answered calmly. "This is a hostage situation and you both need to do what I say. I need your weapons and your radios. Keaton, I need the way to the elevator clear. MacClean, I need you to clear the first floor, make it so we can get out without incident, all right?"

"But Detective…"

"We do not want any civilian casualties, officers. Do as I say." They both handed over their weapons, which Stephens sent back into the room by sliding them on the floor, then tossed the radios in as well. Both men hurried away down the hall, sending nurses and doctors into patients' rooms, shutting the doors behind them. Stephens himself turned and stepped back behind the wheelchair, pushing Gordon into the hallway, his heart pounding in the chest, feeling almost tangibly the aim of the gun on his back.

They made it to the elevator without incident, where Keaton was holding the door open for them. Stephens pushed Gordon in, turning him so he would be easy to push out again and waited as Hearne stepped in as well, staying to the far side of the extra-wide elevator, out of reach of a physical lunge. He aimed one gun at Stephens' temple, then his gaze shifted. The other weapon tracked up and, just as the doors started to close, fired at the officer on the other side. Keaton fell heavily, a bullet in his temple, as the doors closed and the elevator started down.

"Bastard!" Stephens snarled, his hands tightening on the grips of the wheelchair.

"We don't want him following us, do we?" the man said, the gun he had used to kill the officer, now pointed at Gordon, whose hands were white-knuckled on the armrests of the chair. The elevator beeped and opened on the emergency room, seemingly empty save for Officer MacClean. "Get going," Hearne ordered, waving the gun in impatience. Stephens did as demanded, watching Hearne carefully out of the corner of his eye. In a moment, as he expected, he saw the gun began to shift its aim again from Gordon.

"MacClean, get down!" he yelled, and the officer obeyed without question as the shot was fired, burying itself harmlessly into the wall behind the check-in desk. Hearne cursed, and in an instant his gun was resting against the back of Stephens' head.

"If I didn't need you, I'd kill you where you stand for that," he told the detective. "As is, don't look forward to arriving at our destination; you won't have much time to enjoy it. Now move."

Stephens did as ordered, feeling the chill of the gun disappear as the man took a step back, moving quickly out into the bright sunlight of mid-afternoon. An old, beat up black Toyota was pulling up to the curb, a man behind the wheel wearing a Gotham Knights baseball hat and dark sunglasses. Under his jacket, his t-shirt was dirty and red, Stephens noted, and he cursed a little to himself as he maneuvered Gordon through the car door. Hearne waited as Stephens settled Gordon onto the wide back seat as comfortably as possible, then spoke again. "Turn around." Stephens glared at the officer but did as requested, waiting while handcuffs were snapped around his wrists. "Get in." Again, Stephens had no option but do as he was told; the gun in the man's right hand had never changed target. He got in as best he could without his hands, working himself into a sitting position as the door slammed closed behind him, Hearne jumped into the front seat, slamming the door shut. Without a word, the driver merged into traffic, weaving quickly through the mid-day traffic away from the hospital, disappearing into thousands of cars already on the streets.

"You all right, Jim?" Stephens asked Gordon worriedly under his breath.

"I'll live," Gordon managed, though his face was sheet white with pain and he was not sitting so much as slumping on the seat.

"Don't talk," Hearne ordered, and while Stephens did not speak again, the look he shot their captors said everything he was unwilling to voice. _We are NOT going out like this_, Stephens promised himself, his thoughts going to Jessica and his sons. _MacClean will get the word out and Montoya will realize I'm late getting back. This isn't over, not by a long shot._ He glanced at Jim, noting the man's eyes were now closed and he was breathing with deliberate slowness. Stephens would do what he could, and trust to the rest of the MCU for the rest. Turning his head slightly, he made sure to note the streets they were passing, forcing Hearne's threat from his mind, noting only the path they had taken in case he found the opportunity to escape and contact the MCU.

This was not over, he told himself firmly. Not yet.


	16. Chapter 16

**Title**: Criminal Acts (16/?)  
**Author**: StargazerNataku  
**Rating**: PG  
**Genre**: Drama  
**Characters**: Detective Gerry Stephens, Renee Montoya, Jim Gordon, Batman

Summary**:**Even after twenty years in the Gotham City police department and there were some cases that never got easier. It began with an overdose…and continued with a race against time.

**Author's Note: **Here it is, folks. :-) Hope you enjoy! Again, thanks to my awesome beta gaudy_night for her help. I hope you all enjoy this!

_**Chapter 16**_

Bruce Wayne sat at the end of the table in the boardroom, closely listening to Lucius Fox give the board members the finalized details of Wayne Enterprises' donation to the Police Department while giving every indication to the contrary. His chair was leaned back as far as it would go, and he was swinging it back and forth lazily, spinning his cell phone on the polished surface of the table, the noise softly carrying to the men at the opposite end of the room. They never said anything, though he had caught each of them in turn glancing down to the end of the table with looks varying from disgust to disappointment. Inwardly, he smirked, and then glanced down at the phone which had lit up with an incoming text message from a number he recognized as the emergency alert system from the supercomputer in the Batcave. He gave it one more lazy spin, then a particularly hard one, sending it falling off the table to hit the floor with an audible thump. The entire board turned as Bruce sat up, leaned down, and picked it up.

Subtly, he pressed the buttons which would unlock the message and scanned it even before he was fully vertical. He allowed the frown at the message to cross his face, then randomly pushed a few buttons and gave the phone a few shakes, irritation crossing his face as he did so. "Everything all right, Mr. Wayne?" Lucius asked from the other end of the table, his attention on Bruce for the first time the whole meeting.

Bruce allowed a sheepish grin to replace the frown on his face. "Well no," he said. "I think I managed to break it." He rose to his feet and slipped the phone into his pocket. "I'm sure you can continue without me; I have to go get a new one. I'm expecting a _very_ important phone call from Kate Campbell, and I just _can't_ be without it. She'll _never _forgive me if I don't answer, and…well you know." He winked. "We can't have that." He turned and left the room as Lucius' relaxed "Of course, Mr. Wayne," came to his ears.

The door to the boardroom closed behind him and his secretary jumped to her feet at his appearance. "Mr. Wayne," she began. "Is everything…?"

"Oh, everything's fine," he reassured her. "May I use your phone?"

"Of course," she said, turning it so he could reach it easily.

"Thanks." He gave her his best smile, then picked up the receiver, waited a heartbeat, and frowned. "Well, this is trouble. Would you mind getting the Manor's number for me?"

"The manor?"

"Yes, I need to call Alfred and my cell isn't working."

"Of course sir," she said without hesitation. She was a consummate professional, and the surprise that Bruce Wayne did not know his own phone number was carefully hidden and put away. Instead, she dialed the phone number from her own memory and went back to work, turning her back on him for a semblance of privacy.

"Alfred?" Bruce said the instant the butler picked up. "I'm afraid I'm having some trouble with my cell phone. Would you come pick me up immediately? I'm expecting an incredibly important call and need to get it repaired…you will? Thank you. Oh, and I'll need you to drop me off at the penthouse. I need to change into a different suit; I have an appointment tonight that I can't miss. Thanks Alfred." He hung up, smiled at his secretary, and thanked her. "You're one of a million," he told her. "Let me know when Alfred arrives, I'll be in my office."

"Of course, Mr. Wayne." He turned on his heel, opening the heavy mahogany doors which led into an opulent office, paneled in the same dark woods. Bookshelves along the walls were lined with old books, mostly first editions; a Picasso hung on the wall opposite his desk, given to his grandfather as a gift years earlier; behind the desk hung an etching of Edward Hopper's _Night Shadows_, a decoration he had chosen himself and purchased at great cost. He did not spare it a glance, however; instead he sat down at the desk and drew his cell out of his pocket again, again bringing up the message he had received while in the meeting.

The computer generated message was short, sent as a warning after monitoring the police band. _Kidnapping at Gotham General. Gordon missing. Multiple hostages expected. _Bruce cursed under his breath, glancing at his watch. He had roughly fifteen more minutes before Alfred would arrive and five more hours of full daylight. "I doubt Gordon has five hours," Bruce commented to himself as his secretary buzzed him.

"Mr. Wayne? Mr. Pennyworth has arrived. He's waiting downstairs for you."

"Answering system must have forwarded the call to his cell phone," Bruce said. "Thanks." He rose and picked up his briefcase. On his way to the elevator he paused a moment. "I'll be out the rest of the day, Jessica," he told her.

"All right, Mr. Wayne."

"Thanks for covering for me. Take tomorrow off, paid," he told her as he pressed the button to call the elevator.

"Tomorrow is Saturday, Mr. Wayne."

"Oh." He allowed a brief pause. "Well, take it paid anyway. Lucius will give approval to accounting."

"Thank you, Mr. Wayne."

"Have a good weekend." He stepped into the elevator as the doors opened. "Oh, and if Kate Campbell happens to call, do me a favor and explain, won't you?"

"Of course, Mr. Wayne."

"Thanks," he said, casting her his best smile as the doors closed and the elevator began to move. He was in the lobby in moments and in the car in only a minute after. Alfred shut the door behind him and walked around the vehicle, getting into the front seat and putting the car into gear.

"Shall I drop you off at the penthouse first, before getting your phone repaired?" he asked, a hint of humor in his voice.

"There's nothing wrong with my phone, Alfred. But yes, to the penthouse. I'll access the Cave systems from there."

"Something wrong, sir?"

"Very wrong," Bruce answered, clenching his fist. For an instant, his thoughts went to Rachel before he ruthlessly pushed them away. He would do what he had to; Gordon's death was not an option.

X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X

The car pulled to a stop outside of a rundown building several miles from downtown Gotham in an area thick with century-old warehouses, all of which were squat, decaying buildings, long empty save for the occasional illegal transaction. Nearly every building was condemned and the occasional strong storm caused one of these buildings to collapse at the rate of about once every six months, leaving debris-strewn lots to weather. The inherent danger meant that even Gotham's criminal element mostly shunned the small, four block radius, making it a perfect place for a man attempting to hide from cops and mobsters alike, Stephens knew. A man who was now getting out of the driver's seat, taking a weapon from Hearne before he got out of the car. He then waited as the officer turned to face Gordon and Stephens. "Get out," Hearne said to Stephens as he opened the door, waiting until Stephens had done so before yanking the man around to uncuff him. "You carry Gordon." Stephens nodded his acquiescence, carefully maneuvering in order to hurt the Commissioner as little as possible.

"It's all right, Jim," he said, as Gordon tried to put his arm around Stephens' neck again for extra support. "Don't strain yourself." Gordon actually gave a momentarily chuckle that was drowned in a gasp of pain.

"Too late," he said as Stephens felt himself yanked back a step by Hearne.

"Inside," Hearne ordered, and Stephens nodded, walking as quickly as he could under his burden, fear rising up to try to choke him, his heart beginning to pound again as he tried not to think about Hearne's words to him at the hospital.

The building was a two story, one room structure that looked as though it had once been an office building for the warehouses on either side. The floor was empty now, but around the building about a story up was a metal walkway with several doors off of it leading to offices that once had windows commanding a few of the entire floor. Now the glass was shattered, lying around the edges of the nearly empty room, carpeted with dust that was disturbed here and there by boot prints. Boot prints, Stephens noticed, that matched those the man who had driven the car had made.

"Put him on that," Hearne said, pointing to a dingy futon mattress in the middle of the floor, placed away from most of the holes in the ceiling. Stephens did as told, Hearne staying just far enough behind to be out of reach, the gun still pointed at the back of Gerry's head. A moment after he had laid Gordon carefully down, his hands were once again wrenched behind the back, this time by the driver, and cuffed as Hearne offered the man the other weapons he carried.

The driver gave a tight grin as Hearne took several steps back until he was standing up against the wall of the building and did not move, his gaze blanking. "Trusting man," the driver commented in a voice cold as winter. "He should know better than to leave anything unattended in this town." The man turned to Stephens and Gordon, removing his hat to reveal a metal band around his head with wires leading to two sensors on his temples. "He was so easy to infect; all I had to do was drop my little vial into his morning coffee and he was mine to command. Tetch really is a genius; this works better than I had imagined." He pulled off the sunglasses and hung them on the collar of his red t-shirt. "You are good, Detective. I'll give you that. You figured it out, though you weren't good enough to actually find me."

"Let us go," Stephens said. "This won't help you any."

"No, detective," the man said calmly. "Or rather. The only way you get to go is the way my brother went. Protective custody, he told me. I'll be safe at Blackgate, he said. Within a week, he was dead. What was it the warden called it? 'Death by typo?' You know as well as I do it was no mistake. The mob got him, even under your promised protection, Detective. Under his." He nodded in Gordon's direction. "Well they've started to pay for that, and so will you. So will he." He motioned to Gordon, only semi-conscious beside Stephens.

"Broden…" Stephens began.

"On the nose, detective. You know, I bet you never pictured it would come to this the night your people showed up too late to help my niece. I know the first responders didn't…what were their names? Jackson and Bair? Too bad for the other one, but you cops are all alike. You don't give a shit." He cocked the gun, and ripped the metal piece from off of his head, the gun tracking up to point at Hearne.

The officer's blank look disappeared immediately, morphing into a look of horror, casting his features to look younger than his already few years. "Detective," he said, his voice cracking as he spoke. "I couldn't…I didn't…"

"But you did," Crevan Broden informed the officer. "Because you weren't on your guard." He smirked. "So easy. But don't you worry, you'll have plenty of time to apologize to the detective and the commissioner. Soon, officer." He pulled the trigger, and in an instant blood was blossoming from Hearne's chest while the man staggered backwards, staring down at his own mortal wound in surprise. His eyes only briefly met Stephens' in shock before he fell as if in slow motion to the ground and did not move again.

Stephens' heartbeat slowed, the fear that gripped him evaporating into nothing but a calm resolution. He had been foolish enough to hope they would be found before Broden killed them, but he knew now that there was no other option; if he wanted to save his own life and Gordon's, he had to act. His eyes closed briefly as he thought through his options, pushing aside his anger over Hearne's death and remembering words spoken to him over twenty years earlier.

"_Don't take death lying down, rookie_," his more experienced partner had said. "_If you have to go down, it's better to go down fighting than be lead like a sheep to the slaughter_." He opened his eyes and fleetingly wished his hands were free; it made already inadequate options even more useless.

"Now," Broden was saying. "What about you two? You both have kids, don't you? A wife, in your case. How do you think she'll feel tonight, Detective, when there's nothing left of you but a corpse? Think that pretty partner of yours will be the one to tell her?"

"She will be, yes," Gerry said, the world moving in slow motion. _Keep him talking_, he thought. _Delay. Think of something, or you and Jim are dead._

"And what about you, commissioner? You haven't passed out on me, have you?"

"No," Gordon said through clenched teeth, finally opening his eyes against the agonizing pain.

"Think that Montoya bitch will be the one to call Chicago? Tell me, what would you do to get a second chance to see them again? Would you beg?"

"Son…"

"Would you beg, Gordon?" the man demanded, his voice cold as ice and twice as harsh.

"Why are you so angry?" Gordon asked, and the man walked forward, the metal of the gun glinting cold in his hand.

"Because you cops do _nothing_ to solve the real problems in this fucking city. Because you and the mayor are too interested in political points and your own cronies to see how over half the people in Gotham are well and truly fucked! Now tell me, damn it, would you beg for a second chance?"

"Yes," Gordon answered. "If that is what it took."

"You want to know what it _takes_? Do you, Gordon?"

"Yes," he answered.

"It don't take NOTHIN', got it? _They_ didn't get a second chance and you both don't either. It won't be the quick and easy way out. No one I gave a shit about got that, you fucking hypocrite. They didn't get it." He strode over, keeping his weapon trained on Stephens. "They can't come back for that miracle second chance, and you won't either." Stepping forward, he slammed his booted heel onto the wound in Gordon's shoulder, grinding down with all his weight. Gordon could not help the cry of pain that slipped through his lips, feeling blood starting anew as waves of pain jolted through an already worn down, sensitive system. Somehow, he rolled himself onto his side, curling up against the throbbing agony of it, only to be rewarded with a swift kick just to the left of his stomach wound, sending him rolling onto his back with another hoarse cry, his entire body spasming as his vision went black and he fought hard to retain consciousness.

"Stop!" Stephens yelled without thinking, and instantly the aim on the gun was corrected before he even had a chance to move.

"Or _what_, Detective? You'll hurt me? There's no way in hell left for you to _hurt_ me. Now stand up!"

"Why? I thought it was your style to shoot when your victim's down."

Broden used the gun to strike him hard across the face, sending him flying to the floor, unable to catch himself. Spitting out dust, he had only enough time to roll over onto his back before the gun was pressing into his stomach. "Hit Gordon there and he nearly didn't make it. Think you'll fare any better?"

"Maybe," Stephens said, and with a jerk he knocked the other man's legs out from underneath him, sending him flying. The gun went off, and Stephens flinched reflexively, but there was no answering pain in his own body. Rolling as best as he was able without the use of his hands, he steadied himself on his knees. He was preparing to lunge again when the sight of Broden's gun pointed at his temple made him to freeze, causing his heart to pound, his dusty hands turning sweaty as he forced himself to give the appearance of breathing normally. He glanced briefly to Gordon, swallowing to wet his suddenly dry throat, taking the briefest of moments to really feel his failure. There was nothing else to do, no way to disarm the man before he could get a fatal shot off, and he had a feeling that Broden was not going to delay anymore, not now that he knew Stephens would fight.

_Shit. _He was going to die. They both were.

"Nice try, detective. But pointless. Beg."

He took a deep breath and forced himself to look past the gun to meet Broden's eyes. "No," Stephens said, making sure his voice was steady and did not crack.

"No?"

"I'd rather die with my dignity."

"Very well, detective. I can give you that much." Stephens closed his eyes, sending silent apologies to his wife and his sons, hoping they would be all right as the gun cocked audibly in the silence. There was a heartbeat's pause, the briefest of moments as time seemed to stand still, the only sound Gordon's harsh breathing as he fought to control his pain. It would be over soon, Stephens knew, and he waited for it, his heart pounding in his chest.

Suddenly, Broden cried out in pain and there was the sound of the gun clattering to the ground. Stephens' eyes flew open, watched in astonishment as the man half bent in pain, gripping his bleeding hand. He acted then without understanding what had happened, launching himself forward into his would-be killer as from above there was the sound of shattering. Unable to use his hands, he landed hard on his back as Broden pushed him away and reached for his second handgun, feeling glass shards slicing into his hands as other pieces fell from above, cutting his face.

Broden was cursing, and Stephens instinctively rolled out of the way as a large black shape landed on the ground between them, reaching out to grab Broden as he struggled to draw the weapon. Stephens moved quickly, pushing himself across the floor to the commissioner, listening to the Batman's blows as they landed on the kidnapper. "What are _you_ doing here?" Broden cried out as he tried again to reach one of his weapons. Stephens glanced over his shoulder to see Batman reaching down and lifting the man by the collar.

"Some things are more important than a secret," Batman hissed, dropping the man and laying him out with one well placed punch to the jaw. A few more blows and Broden groaned and went limp. Batman dropped him to the ground, and then turned so his eyes met Stephens'. He crossed to the man, knelt behind him, and in an instant the detective's hands were free.

"Thank you," Stephens said, turning to press a hand to Gordon's neck, checking his pulse as Batman rose again and crossed to Broden, restraining the man with Hearne's handcuffs. He then returned to Gordon's side, doing a visual inspection as Gerry finished his, focusing his rapidly fragmenting mind on Gordon instead of his own delayed fear. "His wounds are bleeding again and I think he's going into shock. The bleeding's not bad, but we have to get him to the hospital and stabilized," he said as Gordon reached up and gripped Batman's forearm.

"It's okay," he dizzily told them both as Batman pulled a cell phone from his utility belt. He pressed a button and a moment later growled into the phone.

"Scene's secure. Bring paramedics." He hung up unceremoniously.

"How'd you find us?" Stephens asked. "I didn't think anyone was going to make it in time. No one should have, not with as fast as Broden was going."

"I implanted a tracking device in Gordon's glasses when I repaired them." He met Stephens' surprised look, the detective speechless, his mouth working as he tried to think of something to say. "I thought it safe to prepare for any eventuality."

There was a long silence and Batman held Stephens' gaze over Gordon's prone form. Finally the detective spoke. "Good thinking," he said. Batman nodded, and looked up suddenly as voices were heard outside the door. He drew his line launcher from his belt and in an instant was hurtling towards the ceiling. He landed gracefully on the catwalk, and in another instant had disappeared through one of the shattered skylights. "Thanks," Stephens muttered to himself as the door busted in, a SWAT team in the lead with other officers, Montoya and Bullock included, immediately behind.

The SWAT team moved to secure the scene while Montoya and Bullock made a beeline for where Stephens was kneeling beside Gordon. "Are you all right?" Montoya demanded. "You're bleeding." He looked down at himself, noting the gashes where that the falling glass from the skylight and from the floor had cut him as it had Broden. He studied his bloody hands, realizing they were beginning to shake, and had to force a deep breath before finding his voice.

"I'm fine," he said.

"The Commish?" Montoya asked Bullock.

"Needs to be back in the hospital," he said, radioing the all clear to the paramedics. "That him?" he asked, motioning to the unconscious, handcuffed Broden.

"Yeah," Stephens said.

"We'll get the details later," Montoya said, studying him closely before she helped him to his feet. "Come on. I'm taking you to the hospital. Harv, you take care of things here, will you?"

"Got it," Bullock answered, turning to supervise the teams making sure the scene was secure.

"Gerry?" she said, her hand going to his shoulder.

"Yeah," he said, allowing her to lead him past the paramedics hurrying into the warehouse to the car, accepting the towel she offered him to stop the bleeding from multiple lacerations on his face and hands. Getting in, he sat down in the seat, ignoring his racing heart and his sweating, shaking hands, forcing himself to focus on the pain of his wounds.

"Just hang on," Monotya told him as she got into the car and turned the ignition. "We'll get you fixed up and I'll call your wife."

"Does she know?" he managed to ask.

"Yes, news hit pretty quickly."

"Christ. I need to call her."

"No, you don't. You need to get to the hospital; and you're too worked up right now and don't want to scare her. I'll call her as we drive, if you want, but I'm not going to let you talk to her until you've had the chance to calm down. All right?" Stephens nodded. "Just sit back, we're on our way." She dialed the phone before putting the car into gear. Stephens did as she told him, leaning back against the seat and shutting his eyes, pressing the towel to his face with both hands.


	17. Chapter 17

**Title**: Criminal Acts (17/19)  
**Author**: StargazerNataku  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Genre**: Drama  
**Characters**: Detective Gerry Stephens, Renee Montoya, Jim Gordon, Batman  
Summary: Even after twenty years in the Gotham City police department and there were some cases that never got easier. It began with an overdose…and continued with interrogation.  
**Warnings: **Rating is for excessive language on the part of our suspect, who had a very dirty mouth.

_**Chapter 17**_

Montoya waited at the hospital with Stephens until his wife arrived before excusing herself and heading back over to the MCU where Bullock was already waiting. "He's in holding," he informed her as she entered the bullpen.

"They still working over the crime scene?" she asked, pulling off her jacket.

"Yup," he answered. "They got Hearne and Keaton moved to the morgue. They'll do the autopsies soon as they can, heard the medical examiner's going to start immediately. In the meantime, I've got some of the other guys workin' on talkin' to people at the hospital. Figured you'd want to do the honors with the jackass."

"Damned straight I do," she answered.

"How're Stephens and the Commish?"

"Stephens is fine. He just has some cuts from the shattered glass. They stitched him up and he's probably on his way home as we speak. The Commish was pretty unstable when he got back to the hospital, but he should be fine. He was lucky."

"They both were," Bullock commented. "How Stephens managed to disarm the guy I'll sure as hell never know. He had five handguns on him including that fucking Makarov and three police issue."

"Yeah," Montoya said. "Really lucky." She fingered her cell phone in her pocket, remembering the terse voice on the opposite end telling them where to gather. She had no idea how the hell the Batman had gotten her number, no idea how he had known where the kidnapper and his hostages were, but she was still riding the waves of relief that he had. Otherwise, there would have been no ride to Gotham General with her shell-shocked partner; it would have been a ride to the morgue to identify the body so Jessica would not have to. They never would have found them in time. "_That didn't happen_," she told herself severely, and turned to Bullock. "Let's get him moved to an interrogation room and get this over with."

"You put your feet up for a few, you've been going since it went down. I'll get it taken care of." She nodded, and went to get herself a cup of coffee first, feeling weariness settling in. She filled her mug from the lukewarm pot in the break room and drank half in one long swallow before refilling the mug and returning to her desk. She flipped open one of her files and scanned over it as she waited, reviewing details she already knew as she waited for Bullock to return.

When he finally did twenty minutes later she finished the last of her coffee and got to her feet. "Ready?" he asked her. She nodded, closing the file before picking it up and tucking it under her arm.

"Can't wait," she responded, following him out of the bullpen. "Truth is, I've been waiting for this for a very long time. I just wish Stephens could have a go at it."

"Yeah, well. He's better off where he is right now. We've got this jackass."

"Of course we do." She walked up to the two way glass and studied the man sitting at the table on the other side, staring at the glass with a slight smirk on his bruised face. "Fucker," she commented.

"Yeah," Bullock agreed.

"Let's get this over with," she said. "Get the recorders on. I'm going in." She turned open the door as Bullock pressed the switches to turn on the audio and video recorders in the room. Shutting the door firmly behind her, she turned and met the man's eyes as she crossed the room to toss the folder onto the table. She sat across from their suspect and met his eyes with a firm gaze. Despite his heavily bruised face and split lip, the man was smiling at her—a knowing, sadistic smile which did not falter even under her withering stare. They sat at a stalemate for a long moment before Montoya broke the silence. "We've got you cold on several charges each of murder, kidnapping, and attempted murder. Care to add the details? Because I bet we can convince a judge to try you for everything I have in this folder. You'll already go away for life, why not make the whole process easier and admit to it."

"You think that badge makes you so powerful," Broden commented. "Well and good, but what do I get if I tell you everything you want to know? I won't take a normal deal, not after what my brother got. I don't trust you and your so-called protection."

"Here's the thing, Broden, we know you killed officer Hearne today, and with just a little bit of work I bet we can tie you to anywhere between four and twenty-two other murders. Then there's attempted murder, kidnapping, and possibly theft. We have the evidence to put you away for a very, very long time. So why don't you just tell me why you did this, make it a little easier on yourself."

"And easier on you. Why the hell would I want to make anything easier for you, detective? You lazy-ass cops are all the same; let's take the easy way out, and who the hell cares if others get fucking burned in the process. But oh, it becomes so important when it's one of your own. Now it's a couple officers and your precious commissioner and your partner. Now it's about them, and you're pissed off at just how close I fucking came to succeeding. How'd you have liked that, detective? If I'd had another minute, your partner's brains would have been all over the floor. Gordon's too."

Montoya forced her breathing to remain even, knowing he was trying to bait her. "Attempting to kill Commissioner Gordon was not your first try at murder, was it?" she said calmly, though under the table one of her hands was clenched into a fist.

"No. The first one was that sniveling little shit that sold my niece the smack."

She glanced at the folder. "Nikolai Sokolov?"

"A so-called friend of my brother's, stupid fucker. That's the type of _friends_ this town creates. My jackass brother didn't even see it, he thought telling her to stay away from the shit was good enough. Never kept it at the house so she couldn't get into it. Didn't think that his _friends_ wouldn't be so thoughtful. To them, a deal was a deal, money was money, and it didn't matter who you fucked over in the process. So I stole my brother's gun, set up a meeting, and shot the fucker in the face. You see, detective, those fucking dealers had it coming. This city's a pit. I was just cleaning up the trash."

"So in the name of 'cleaning up the trash' you started in on the other dealers?" Montoya asked.

"Don't tell me they didn't fucking deserve it," he sneered. "The commissioner himself was trying to fight the drug problem, or so he said. Simpleminded bastard doesn't realize there's only one way to deal with those fuckers." He met her gaze and held it for a moment. "You gotta shoot 'em like the dogs they are."

"But you didn't just stick with the dealers and the addicts."

"Fuck no. I realized pretty quickly that I had to treat the whole cancer, 'stead of just bits of it."

"And when did you decide that?"

"When they fucked my brother over at Blackgate."

"Griffith Broden."

"Yeah, your warden's death by typo. He was trying to do the right thing for the first time in his fucking life, and it gets him two bullets in the brain. Not only that but my niece dies and your cops just come through as though it was nothing, like you'd seen it before and it wasn't _important_. Fuck-up that he was, he and my niece was all I had left, and now I don't even got that. Fuckers."

"So what did you do about it?"

"What everyone in this fucking city should do. I took my brother's gun and took things inta my own hands. Dealers, junkies, cops. Don't matter. They're all part of the fucked up system. Took that stupid idiot brother of mine to get himself killed after he finally found 'is conscience to make me realize the problem was more. It wasn't just the so-called bad guys, it was the fucking good guys too. They were just harder to get at."

"So you stole the tech from Tetch."

"Stole?" He barked a laugh. "I didn't fucking steal it, he gave it to me."

"How'd you get in contact with Tetch?"

"Heard about his shit on the news, figured I'd get it. Made sure I could one way or the other."

"What did you do?"

"Found his place, went in to talk to him. He resisted, but I convinced him."

"How?"

"I put my fucking gun to his forehead and told him how it was gonna be. He didn't argue, little shit of a man he is. We went to the bank and he got his shit out. I didn't know he was withholdin' some though, little punk."

"Then what?"

"Then I killed Ivanov, sold Ortega the smack laced with the first vial, and sent him in to kill the fuckers who were too slow in responding to save my niece. Too bad for the other one, but you fuckers are all the same. As for you, it's a pity Ortega missed, would have saved a shitload of time. That's why I decided to go after Wayne and the Commissioner myself, you know. I figured I wouldn't miss. And I didn't. I just didn't do the job right."

"So you infected Commissioner Gordon's nurse."

"But that didn't work so well, did it. So I used Officer Hearne instead and waited. Your partner came in handy, saved me having to track him down and kill him separately. I'd have succeeded too, if it weren't for the fucking Batman."

"And then we get to the part of the story that I just don't believe, Broden."

"Yeah, you're too willing to believe that damned commissioner of yours is an angel. There's no such thing in Gotham. You got the demons in charge and the rest of us as their fucking slaves. He's crooked, detective. And now I know that. What you going to do about it?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing."

"No. You've been gunning for the Commissioner for months, Broden. Now we've caught you and you've failed. You'll say anything to try and get something on him. There's no evidence that the Batman was ever in that warehouse."

"We'll see." His smile shifted. "I want a lawyer. And my phone call."

"Of course." She rose and, biting back further commentary, turned and exited the room. "He's proud of himself, isn't he," she commented.

"Quite a story he's got," Bullock answered. "The Commissioner, crooked. That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard, and I've heard some weird shit in my time." Montoya, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, glanced back through the window at the man, smirking at them through the one way glass. One of her fists clenched.

"Go call the public defender's office. I'll keep an eye on this shit," she requested of Bullock.

"Sure thing." He turned and left. Montoya watched him go, then turned back to Broden, wondering how the hell she was supposed to manage this. It was different from Lombardi knowing, or Allen. Despite misgivings, those men had been chosen by Gordon, handpicked to serve in the MCU, and it would take much more than a few baseless rumors for them to turn on a man they all believed in.

Broden believed in nothing, wanted nothing more than to see the Commissioner burn. And of all the people in Gotham, Renee Montoya was the only one who could find a way to keep that from happening with Stephens at home and Gordon in the hospital. "Shit," she said low under her breath, the curse bringing momentary satisfaction which did not last.

She studied him instead, for a long moment, knowing he could not see her through the glass but feeling his eyes boring into her all the same. _No options, Renee,_ she told herself. _ You act like he's got nothing, it's all you can do for now. He won't find anyone who buys this. It's an absurd accusation for anyone who knows Jim Gordon, the straightest-laced cop that ever lived. No one needs to know it's actually _true_. No one does save Gerry and me. I won't say a word and I know he won't either._

"You try it, bastard," Montoya muttered at the man through the glass. "You just try it."


	18. Chapter 18

**Title**: Criminal Acts (18/20?)  
**Author**: StargazerNataku  
**Rating**: G  
**Genre**: Drama  
**Characters**: Detective Gerry Stephens, Renee Montoya, Jim Gordon, Batman  
Summary: Even after twenty years in the Gotham City police department and there were some cases that never got easier. It began with an overdose…and continued with a public accusation.

**Author's Note:** I'm sorry for the delay in posting this chapter. I will try to get the next chapter up in roughly a week, but life is a bit insane right now and I have very important commitments which are taking up most of my time when I am not in school. Again, thanks to my beta, gaudy_night!

_**Chapter 18**_

The night was warm and the sky was clear, the night dark for there was no moon. Stephens opened the screen door and stepped out onto the family's back porch, settling himself onto the stoop. From out the open upstairs windows he could hear the television in his middle son's room and could see the light coming from the youngest boy's where he was probably engrossed in a stack of comic books. Behind him, the screen door opened and closed and a moment later his wife was offering him a cold beer as she sat down beside him. He thanked her and brought the bottle to his lips, taking a long drink. They sat silently for a long moment before she rested her hand on his knee. "You're brooding, Gerry," she said, a hint of humor in her voice. He turned to her and ran a hand through her hair, his attention drawn to the silver mixed with the brown and the slight laugh wrinkles around her mouth and her eyes.

"Maybe a bit," he admitted.

"What about?"

"Just thinking about how wrong I've been about some things lately. It's been a hard few months."

"Yes it has," she agreed. "But we made it through, more or less. We always have."

"Yes we have." His hand dropped to his knee and he took another long swallow of beer. "And this time was no exception, thank God." She studied him for a long moment and lowered her voice so their sons could not hear.

"This time was worse than usual, wasn't it."

"Yeah," he answered, rolling the half-full bottle between his hands. "It was close. Too damn close." In his mind, the gun clicked again, accompanied by a rush of the same fear he had felt on his knees in the dust. He took a deep breath in, and his wife shifted over and laid her head on his shoulder.

"Well," she said after several long moments, offering him silent support as she mulled over his words. "At least it got you some time off."

"Been so long since I had a vacation, I definitely won't complain about that," he agreed, and actually managed a chuckle.

"I won't either," she said, an arm sliding around his waist. "I will, however, complain about all those stitches and things holding your face together," she teased. "They completely and utterly ruin your rugged good looks."

"I can't decide if that was an insult or a compliment," he commented.

"I didn't marry you for your looks, Gerry. Well, not entirely, anyway."

"No?"

"Not at all. It was more for your charm."

"And for the fact that I knocked you up," he teased.

"Oh stop," she said, pushing his shoulder teasingly. "You know full well that merely sped up the process. You'd have taken a decade to propose otherwise."

"Probably," he agreed, taking another sip of the beer in his hand.

"I don't think I'll ever forget how Mom hit you with her handbag when we told her." She laughed.

"Your mom was wicked with that thing."

"You're a tough guy, you managed."

"I know." He drew her close and kissed her. "The boys doing all right?"

"Yeah. I called Brandon and talked to him, but I don't think it really hit home to him how serious it was. You know he avoids reading the Gotham news like the plague. Jake and Dylan have both withdrawn a bit, but at their ages that's expected, I think. If it wasn't about you getting hurt it'd be about something else. They're teenagers, they'll be fine."

"And you?"

"Gerry, I knew when I married you I was in for this."

"Doesn't make it easy."

"No, it doesn't. But I learned a long time ago to stop worrying about what could happen. I had to, or I'd be incapable of getting out of bed, and those books won't edit themselves, you know?"

"I was worried I was letting you down," Stephens told his wife quietly after a long moment of silence. "Bastard had that gun pointed at my face and I could only think of you, whether you'd be able to get through. Whether the boys would be able to."

"Gerry," his wife responded quietly, her hand gently touching his cheek and turning his head so he was looking at her. "I would be devastated, yes, but I wouldn't stop living. You and our sons deserve and demand better than that. You could never, ever let me down like that." She studied him for a long moment, then gave a half smile. "Gerry, I am _not_ Barbara Gordon. I love you, and I worry about you, but no matter what, I'm here with you until the end. Nothing you or anyone else could do would change that. You're stuck with me."

His face melted into a half smile, and he leaned in to give her a slow, passionate kiss. "You know what I think?"

"What do you think?"

"I think we should go inside, open that bottle of wine Barbara gave us, and put some music on the stereo. It's been far too long since I got to dance with my wife."

"If you're lucky, I'll even put on that blue dress you got me last Christmas because it reminded you of my prom dress. It's just too bad we don't still have your suit, or one like it. You did look handsome in it, even if it was that awful powder blue with bell bottoms."

"I wish you'd let me forget about that damned suit."

She laughed. "You picked it Gerry," she told him.

"A guy's entitled to a mistake or two, wife of mine. Right? Besides, at seventeen most boys are idiots. I let you get away after all. Not two months after."

"Well yes, but I was smart enough to come back." She kissed him again. "Eventually."

"Best thing that ever happened to me."

"Me too." Her smile turned a touch wicked. "So what do you say? Want a chance to pretend we're seventeen again?"

"I'd like that. Though not in the back seat of the Chevy this time."

"You have no sense of adventure at all, Detective," she teased.

"Well, I suppose we could. After all…"

"Guys!" a voice came from the second floor. "You are _not_ seventeen and your _kids_ can _hear_ you. Take it inside, will you?"

"What's the matter, Jake?" Stephens asked teasingly. "We being too gross for you?"

"YES, Dad, geez. I'm TRYING to read."

"Ah, teenagers," Jessica said under her breath, chuckling.

"All right, son, we'll go in. Just be sure not to come downstairs for awhile, okay?"

"Dad!" came the immediate protest, and Stephens laughed. Jessica stood.

"I'll go open up that wine," she told him. "And put on that dress."

"I'll come in in a minute," Gerry told her. She kissed him.

"Don't be long. And no more brooding!"

"Rodger," he told her with a mock salute. Smiling into the darkness, he rose, crossing the small patch of back lawn to the recycle bin. He stood for a moment, drinking the last few swallows in the bottle, looking back up at the house. Light streamed out into the darkness, illuminating the rooms inside for the world to see. Dylan's shades were closed, but Stephens could see Jake's face through his window, engrossed in whatever he was reading. In the kitchen, he could see Jessica, reaching into the cupboard to pull out two seldom used wine glasses, a half smile on her face. He knew her well enough to know that she was probably humming to herself as she did so; she always did when she was happy. He had, he decided as he took a final swig and tossed the bottle into the bin, gotten lucky in more ways than he could count.

As he took a step back towards the house, his cell phone rang in his pocket. He stopped and fished it out. "Stephens."

"Gerry, it's Renee."

"Renee, I am on mandatory leave," he told her teasingly. "Why the hell are you bothering me?"

"Turn on your TV. GCN."

"Why?"

"Just do it, Gerry. It's important."

"All right, all right." He moved quickly to the house and through the kitchen and dining room into the living room. Picking up the remote, he turned on the television and switched it to GCN just as a commercial break was ending.

"We return now to special coverage of breaking news out of city hall," the pretty young reporter was saying. "A source in the Gotham City district attorney's office, speaking under request of anonymity as he was not authorized to speak to the press, told GCN today that an investigation into corruption charges has been opened concerning Police Commissioner James Gordon. While the source could not confirm details, he suggested that recent rumors concerning Commissioner Gordon's relationship with the Batman were part of the investigation. For more, we turn to GCN's Mike Engel outside of Gotham General hospital where Commissioner Gordon is currently recuperating after a series of assassination attempts. Mike?"

"Thank you, Julia. As we all know, Commissioner Gordon was recently kidnapped from the hospital behind me where he was recuperating, taken along with top MCU detective Gerard Stephens. We reported that evening that it was Detective Stephens who disarmed their captor and called his partner, Detective Renee Montoya, who converged on the area with the Quick Response Team, secured the area, and brought the commissioner and the detective back to the hospital, where Stephens was treated and released and Gordon was readmitted.

"While we are unable to confirm details at this time, a source in the police department, speaking on the condition of anonymity, called the official police department explanation that Stephens disarmed their captor suspicious, considering Broden was armed with several handguns at the time of his arrest, one of which belonged to the detective. Our source in the district attorney's office agreed with this assessment, stating that it has been alleged that it was not, in fact, Stephens who disarmed their kidnapper, but rather that it was, in fact, the Batman.

"Calls put into the police department for another official statement were unanswered at broadcast time, and Commissioner Gordon remains in the hospital and is thus unavailable for comment. Calls to the listed phone number for Detective Stephens revealed only that the number is no longer in service." Gerry took a moment to be thankful they had changed their number and withdrawn from the phone book after the Joker incident, for his wife and sons' sake. "GCN will continue to investigate as these allegations come to light. Back to you, Julia."

"Christ," Gerry cursed under his breath as the screen switched back to the newsroom and the pretty young anchor gave final commentary.

"I know," Montoya said into his ear, and he jumped, almost having forgotten he was on the phone.

"What the hell do we do now?"

"That I don't know," she answered. He moved back to rest his head against the back of the couch, the hand not holding the phone rubbing his face carefully around the cuts crossing his face. He heard Jessica coming down the stairs, her heels making soft clicking sounds on the hardwood floor. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to think clearly.

"No judge'll buy it," he finally said. "Not if the information came from Broden. He tried to kill Jim on three separate occasions."

"And admitted to it no less."

"He did?"

"Was all too pleased to share. Said at one point, and I quote, 'those bastards had it coming, and I'd do it all over if I could!' Saved himself the trouble, really. We had him cold on enough to assure him of life in prison without parole, what's the big deal about admitting to it?"

"True," Stephens acquiesced. "But then he comes out with everything else."

"Yeah. I wanted to give you a heads up. It's all going to hit the fan and you and the Commish are going to be right smack in the middle of it." He felt Jessica's hand on his shoulder but he did not turn to look at her, listening to the commentator on the television give further details. For a brief moment he cursed Gordon for telling him the truth.

"Thanks, Renee. For letting me know."

"Anytime, partner. Anything I can do?"

"See if you can get a hold of the Commissioner and see if he has any great ideas. Barring that…"

"Call the Good Samaritan?"

"If you can. We have to figure this out tonight because tomorrow's going to be too late."

"I'm on it."

"Oh, and Renee?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't use your phone when you call me back."

"Already on it, partner, don't worry."

"Thanks." He flipped his phone closed.

"Gerry, what was that all about?" Jessica asked, concern on her face and in the tone of her voice. For a long moment Stephens did not answer, remained staring at the television where the anchor was now talking about a major series of car accidents on the interstate, trying to figure out what to say to his wife.

"Someone accused Gordon and, by association, me of what amounts to some sort of corruption. It was just on the news. I'm thinking it was probably Broden."

"The kidnapper? And anyone believed him? Gerry, the man almost killed you _and_ Jim, surely they…you're the straightest cop in the city, after Jim Gordon. How on Earth…" She stopped abruptly and studied his face intently. "Oh, God, Gerry, what did you do? There's something behind this, isn't there, that's why you're upset."

"Jess…"

"No, Gerry, what did you do? Nearly twenty-five years you manage to stay straight in this crooked town and now you…you _know_ what happens to Gotham cops who end up in jail!"

"I know, Jess, and that isn't going to happen. They won't have enough evidence to pin anything on me. Jim will have made sure of that."

"Jim Gordon's been in the hospital, how could he?"

"Jess," he said getting to his feet and resting his bandaged hands on her shoulders, the parts of his skin touching her dress around the bandages strange on the silk. "It's going to be all right."

"How?" she asked, meeting his eyes.

"I…I don't know yet."

"Gerry, I nearly lost you yesterday. I…tell me this won't end that way." He moved a hand to gently touch her face.

"Broden's a murderer, Jess. Any evidence he gives won't stand up in court, not against two people he was caught cold trying to kill. The worst I can see happening is that I…" His phone interrupted him and he sighed, picking it up off the couch where he had set it. "I think this is Montoya. Give me one minute." He kissed her forehead as he accepted the call.

"Stephens."

"I got a hold of the commissioner. He said to not worry and let him manage everything, that he's already dealing with it. By morning, the heat should be off you. You'll just have to confirm what he said when IA asks. You didn't know Batman was going to be there, and he told you to hush up on what you knew or, and I quote, he said that you'd be out of a job so fast you wouldn't know what happened."

"_Jim_ said that?"

"He made sure that I would repeat it word for word. If you don't go along with what he told me to tell you, you're going to be fired and he'll make sure no other department in the country will hire you." Gerry stood silent in surprise for a long moment. "With Brandon in college and Dylan soon to be off, you had to do what you had to do, you know partner?"

"Montoya…"

"Word for word, Gerry, and the commissioner isn't one to threaten without good cause."

"All…all right." He could feel his wife's eyes boring into the back of his skull. "I'll do that. I'll talk to you soon, all right?"

"Good luck."

"Thanks." He hung up the phone and turned back to his wife. "Jim's handling it, Jess. He said there's nothing to worry about, that all I need to do is corroborate his story. I've trusted him this far, and he hasn't let me down."

"But, Gerry…"

"I'm sorry I can't go into details, Jess, but this is something big and I don't want you involved. This way if anyone asks you, you can honestly say you don't know anything. Please don't ask any further; I'm trying to protect you and the boys."

She held his gaze for a long moment and then took one of his bandaged hands in hers. "All right," she said. "I know you, Gerry. I imagine that whatever this is…" her voice trailed off momentarily. "Didn't hurt anyone."

"No," he said. "It didn't." He drew her into his arms, closing his eyes and replaying in his mind the scene at the warehouse; kneeling and powerless, preparing to die, the horrible realization that no help was coming. He took a deep breath, and forced himself to remember still further, the sound of the glass shattering, of Batman appearing at just the moment to save his life. "It helped more than it hurt, particularly for Jim and me." She pulled away and met his eyes, understanding the things he was not saying instinctively.

"There's still that wine," she finally said.

"And that dress." He hugged her tightly again. "You look beautiful."

"Do you have to worry about it anymore tonight?"

"No," he said.

"Then let's pretend it doesn't exist. At least until morning."

"Okay." He kissed her. "You turn on the music, I'll pour the wine."

"That's a deal, detective."


	19. Chapter 19

**Title**: Criminal Acts (19/21)  
**Author**: StargazerNataku  
**Rating**: G  
**Genre**: Drama  
**Characters**: Detective Gerry Stephens, Renee Montoya, Jim Gordon, Batman  
Summary: Even after twenty years in the Gotham City police department and there were some cases that never got easier. It began with an overdose…and ended in change.

**Author's Note:** Longest. Chapter. Yet. Sorry it took so long, folks. Been big doings around here. Next chapter will hopefully be up sooner. I'm thinking there will be one more chapter and an epilogue after this. Then the sequel, which is still in development stages. Though it does have a prologue.

_**Chapter 19**_

With a file in one hand and a cup of green tea in his other, Bruce entered one of Wayne Manor's first floor sitting rooms, setting the cup and saucer on the table to his right before seating himself on the chaise lounge. As he settled onto the plush cushions, he picked up the remote and turned on the television, opening the file when he found he was a few minutes early for Gotham's six o'clock news. Tuning out the well practiced insults of the sitcom couple on the screen, he scanned the financial information in files Lucius Fox had given him to review at Wayne Enterprises that day.

When the news began, he welcomed the break, closing the folder he was reviewing and setting it aside as the introductory music faded and the screen switched to the news anchors. "Our top story tonight involves new developments concerning Gotham City Police Commissioner James Gordon. A source in the Gotham City district attorney's office, speaking under request of anonymity as he was not authorized to speak to the press, told GCN today that an investigation into corruption charges _has_ been opened concerning Gotham's Commissioner. While the source could not confirm details, he suggested that recent rumors concerning Commissioner Gordon's relationship with the Batman were part of the investigation." As Bruce watched, his face grim, the shot switched to the second reporter.

"Thank you, Christine. Appointed by Mayor Garcia during the Joker incident, Commissioner Gordon has always been seen as a public figure untouched by the corruption that has become so common in our city. One of the most popular commissioners in Gotham's history, under his tenure the overall crime rate for major cases has dropped by at least five percentage points, and crime overall is down by about three percent. What the commissioner and the Gotham City Police Department has failed to do, however, is to bring in the Batman, who is wanted on five counts of murder and the kidnapping of the Commissioner's wife and young children, despite continual reports of appearances on Gotham's streets. It is now reported by a source close to the incident that during the recent kidnapping attempt on Gordon himself, taken from Gotham General hospital along with one of the Police Department's top detectives Gerry Stephens, that it was the Batman who intervened, taking out the kidnapper and would-be assassin before the Quick Response Team was able to breach the building.

"When reached for comment, Mayor Garcia declined to appear on camera, but he called for an external investigation into these allegations while declining to respond to questions concerning Gordon's status as head of the Gotham City Police Department." At that, Bruce's frown deepened and his mind started going through various options, trying to decide if he had covered his and Gordon's partnership well enough.

"Damn it," he cursed, knowing there was and never would be any solid evidence, but he also knew Garcia, and he knew that the man would not care if there was evidence or no. To the Mayor, there was nothing but image, how things _looked_. It was why he had insisted Gordon attend Bruce Wayne's fundraiser; it was the reason he had been angry when Gordon had left at a time he deemed early. "Damn it," he said again, getting to his feet and turning off the television, abandoning his tea to cool as he made his way down to the cave.

X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X

Gordon opened his eyes and for a moment wondered why he had woken, studying the half-dark of his hospital room for a clue. Finally, he spoke to the silent darkness. "I was wondering if you'd come," he commented quietly from his place in the hospital bed. "Gerry mentioned you had before. Saw the news, I take it?"

"Yes." From the shadowed corner, Batman took a step forward, becoming partially visible in the gloom of the hospital room after midnight.

"I've already told Stephens I'd manage it. I don't want to see him go down for this; he's a good man and a better friend. Someone's going to come and question me tomorrow, I'd stake my job on it. As for what I'm going to tell them…well, I haven't decided yet."

"Gordon…"

"This is what it's come down to, Batman. It's a house of cards in the wind. Your lie was never strong enough to withstand anything more than a brief breath of air and we've got a hurricane on our hands. They'll never prove anything, we've been too careful for that, and Broden's got enough reason to want me to fall as anyone. The judge will probably dismiss due to lack of solid evidence. That's if I don't decide to cop a plea and admit to it all."

"Gordon," Batman snarled.

"Enough," Gordon said quietly. "This is out of your hands now, Batman, and it's firmly in mine. It is my choice, and my life, and if I have to go down I could at least use what little leverage I still have to lift you back up. This city needs you, probably more than it needs me."

"You're wrong, Jim." Gordon glanced at the man and his eyebrow rose nearly to his hairline at the use of his first name. "Gotham needs you, and this city will realize that in the end."

"Just like they realized they need you?" Gordon asked, dryly. "I don't know what Gotham thinks it needs but it sure as hell isn't you or I. I should consider myself lucky I'm getting myself out of it alive." Gordon sighed. "Instead all I think about are all the things I haven't done yet, all the people out there who I could still help."

"You can say 'I told you so,'" Batman said after a moment, and Gordon shook his head.

"I don't want to. We make the sacrifices we have to make, that's part of serving this city. She's demanding, she'll take everything you have and everything you'll ever be and force you to be what it is you aren't. And then she takes even more, until you're left with nothing. Nothing except an empty apartment and no prospects in the world."

"I'm sorry." Again Gordon's eyebrows shot up and he actually looked at the masked man standing nearby in open surprise. Then the look on his face softened and he shook his head.

"I don't want you to be sorry," he said. "I don't know what I want, but it isn't that. We gambled and lost this time, is all, Batman, and there's nothing to be done for it now. I'm not bitter, and I don't feel as hopeless as I must sound. I don't regret anything and consider it an honor to have helped you."

"I brought this on you."

"I brought this on myself, son," Gordon said, turning to meet Batman's look. "I called it in; I told the world that you murdered those people. It was your idea, to be certain, but I put it into play. I did this. And I will not have you feeling guilty over something that is not your fault. I can see into you enough to know that there's plenty else you feel guilty about. I didn't do it alone, sure, but the responsibility lies with me and with me alone. You don't get to be guilty about this. You have more work to do, more people to save."

"It isn't worth it."

"Yes, it is."

"I _won't_ let it end this way."

"It already _has_, Batman." They stared at each other for a long moment in silence.

"Gordon."

"It won't be easy, no," Gordon commented. "But, no offense meant, when your only social contact is on the job and with a man in a mask that you meet on rooftops and in dark alleys, there's some indication that you need to take a look at your life."

"Imagine being the man in the mask."

"Touché," Gordon answered with a chuckle. "Don't worry about me, Batman. I'll get through this. And maybe I'll get lucky. Maybe Garcia'll believe in the evidence, or lack thereof, this once. It isn't over until it's over."

"Gordon."

"Yes?"

"_Did_ you agree with the lie? Do you think Gotham _should_ have gotten the truth?" The two men stared at each other in the darkness, the silence expanding between them, muting the soft sounds of medical equipment. Gordon finally opened his mouth to speak, having chosen his words carefully.

"I think that it," he began quietly, but got no further before there were footsteps outside the door and the sound of the nurse speaking to the guard at the door. Gordon glanced to the door, then back to the corner where Batman had been.

He was already gone.

"Damn it," Jim said quietly to the empty room as the door opened.

X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X

One of Gotham's assistant district attorneys, a pretty young woman with blue eyes and brown hair, sat down next to his bed and opened her briefcase in her lap. "We haven't met before, Commissioner," she said as she pulled out a stack of papers. "My name is Christine Oscura. Mayor Garcia requested that our office handle this investigation to avoid conflicts of interest with the Police Department's Internal Affairs office. I'm sure we can both agree that isn't in anyone's best interests."

"We can," Gordon answered calmly.

"And I further apologize that we are doing this now, while you're still in the hospital, but again the Mayor was very insistent that we complete the investigation as quickly as possible."

"Of course. There's no need to apologize to me, Ms. Oscura. I understand how things work; I've worked in Gotham for over twenty years now."

"Of course," she said, setting her briefcase to the side. "You don't mind if I record our conversation?"

"Not at all."

"Thank you." She pulled out a small digital recorder and set it on his bed's tray table, moving it so it was between them. She pressed the 'record' button, went over the process with him, and when he indicated he understood, moved directly to the first question. Businesslike, he could respect that. She asked him questions about his background, how he came to be commissioner, and then settled into the line of questioning he most wished to avoid.

"Have you ever been approached by the vigilante Batman?" Despite having lain awake almost the entire night trying to decide how he would answer, Gordon hesitated a moment before speaking.

"I have," Gordon said.

"When?" He detailed the night the Batman had broken into his office, nearly three years past, from the stapler at his neck to his own unwillingness to shoot into the darkness after him. "Did it happen again after?"

"Yes, on occasion."

"In what kinds of situations?" He started to talk, listing several he could think of, stating the facts in as calm and detached a manner as he could.

"And did you ever try to arrest him?" she demanded.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I valued my own life," Gordon said, with a twinge of guilt. "I'm no match for the Batman, gun in hand or no. The man scared me. Not to mention that at the time I had a wife and two children to look after."

"He scared you into cooperating with what he wanted?"

"Yes," Gordon said. "And until the incident with Dent, he hadn't done anything to seriously hurt anyone."

"What happened that night?"

Here he paused again. "I got a call. From Barbara."

"Your ex-wife?"

"We were still married then. She told me that 'he' had our children and gave me an address. She was hysterical, so I went.

"And when you got there? What happened?"

"When I got there, Dent was already dead. I managed to hear something about "Batman" and called him in under suspicion that he'd done the murdering. The evidence pointed to it."

"But you didn't actually see him do it?"

"No."

"Did your wife? Your children?"

"No," Gordon answered. Oscura wrote some things down on the pad.

"After, did you have contact with the Batman?"

"He stayed away. He knew I called him in as a murderer, knew we were trying to arrest him for the deaths."

"On the day you were kidnapped, Commissioner, what happened?" Gordon began to recount the details, from Gerry joining him over his lunch hour, through the kidnapping to the murder of Hearne in the warehouse. He paused, trying to figure out how to say what came next, but the assistant DA was not willing to wait. "And then what happened?" she asked. "Stephens' report states that he was able to disarm your attacker."

He took a deep, calming breath and made his decision. "Stephens did attack Mr. Broden," he said. "In the hopes that he would save our lives."

"And he disarmed him?"

"No," Gordon said. "His hands were cuffed and he wasn't able to disarm him."

"Then how is it you are both alive?"

"The Batman," Gordon said, taking a steadying breath. "He was there in the warehouse, he disarmed Broden and uncuffed Stephens." The woman's eyebrows shot practically to her hairline.

"Why then did Detective Stephens say otherwise in his report of the situation?"

"Because I told him he had to."

"You told him to?"

"I did."

"What, exactly did you say?"

"I told him he had to lie, or he would never work again. I told him I would ruin his career."

"Why did you say that?"

"To allow myself time to renew the investigation into the five murders Batman had been accused of. I had a moment of self doubt."

"What were you concerned about?"

"There was going to be major ramifications if such a story went public, and it would create bad press for the city and the department. I wanted to be sure before the press caught wind of what had happened. But they did before I was able to order a full reinvestigation into the matter."

The woman looked at him. "Commissioner, I cannot even begin to know where to start with this."

"I have always," Gordon said. "Tried to do what I thought was best for Gotham. I did so in this circumstance, and I apologize if I have done more harm than good."

Her gaze was critical, but she avoided more commentary by asking another question, and another, and another. By the time she was finished with all the details she was frowning, a look which remained on her face as she packed away her folders, notes, and the recording device. "Someone will be in touch, Commissioner," she said.

"Of course, Ms. Oscura. Thank you for coming." She nodded and disappeared from the room. Gordon's eyes fell closed without a moment's loss, and he felt himself pressing more heavily into the mattress, weariness assaulting him as he thought back over the questions and his answers and tried to decide if he had done a good enough job to keep Stephens from the fallout, and possibly, in the end, help Batman as well.

X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X

Stephens ran into Mayor Garcia in the hallway, but the man did not spare him a look, merely swept himself into the elevator and disappeared. Frowning, he entered Jim Gordon's hospital room to find the man sitting in his wheelchair, staring out the window at the city beyond. He did not move when Stephens stepped through the partially open door; in fact he gave no indication that he had heard the detective enter. Stephens' frown deepened, but only momentarily. Instead, he shut the door and made his face carefully neutral. "Just saw the Mayor, commish, bet you had a great visit." The sarcasm hung heavily between them and Gordon did not answer for a long moment.

"You could say that," Gordon answered.

"What did he want?" Gerry asked, moving further into the room to sit in one of the uncomfortable hospital chairs across from Gordon's wheelchair. "He doesn't just make social visits, not when he doesn't have a political agenda."

"He had a very political agenda." Gordon cleared his throat. "He fired me."

"He _what_?" Stephens asked incredulously.

"I could see it coming," Gordon said. "It's an election year, Gerry, and he made it quite clear to me before this all happened that he needed results in the Batman investigation. Even just being accused of being in league with him…what I told that ADA two weeks ago doesn't matter. You know Garcia, it's all about image. He'll be on TV before the night's out, and rather than saying he fired me he'll say that I decided not to return to work, pending investigation into ethics violations. He told me as much. I told him I wouldn't question it."

"That son of a _bitch_," Stephens cursed. "You're not going to _fight_ this?"

"No," Gordon said, and a look of discomfort crossed his face.

"Why not, Jim?"

"It was the best option. I didn't want to go to jail, and he made it quite clear that was an option on the table if I didn't cooperate. For both of us."

"Jim, you can't think…you've done more good for this city than anyone in years, and you're just going to walk away from it?"

"Gerry," he said. "What can I do? I didn't get results; you know that as well as I do, not to mention that I have no desire to be a political tool for the mayor. If I didn't cooperate he'd make a public example of us, and then we'd both go to jail. I don't relish the idea. You know what happens to Gotham cops who go to jail. They never get out again."

Stephens opened his mouth to protest, but paused before he spoke and started at Gordon for a long time. Jim Gordon knew that he wanted to object, could see it in his old friend's face, but he was silent and did not voice further protests. When he did speak, his voice was full of frustration. "I won't work for a new commissioner, Jim. Not under these circumstances. And I know Montoya will be with me on that." Gordon turned to Stephens and his eyes blazed for a moment. "Bullock too. Hell, half the MCU's going to…"

"You will," Gordon interrupted. "Gerry, Gotham needs cops like you and Montoya. I put you all in place for a reason and I need you to stay where you are. Not to mention that Batman…"

"I won't, Jim."

"Gerry, please. There needs to be someone on the inside who knows."

"Jim…"

"I know I am asking a lot of you, Gerry, God help me. And if you walk away I will not think less of you. Whoever Garcia brings in is going to have nothing to do with me or anyone I put in place, and asking you to back up Batman in that case…you'll be endangering yourself. But damn it, Gerry, I don't want to see him killed. He…" Gordon shook his head.

"Jim," Gerry interrupted. "No, I…" He took in the steady look Gordon was giving him and sighed. "I'll think about it."

"And talk to Montoya. She'll need to make the same choice."

"What are you going to do?" he asked.

"I don't know," Gordon said calmly.

"Well, whatever you need, you've got Jess and me. All you need to do is ask, Jim."

"I know, Gerry, and I appreciate it. Thank you. But I don't want you to worry. I'll be all right somehow."

Stephens cursed again. "You shouldn't have to be just all right, Jim. You were made for the job and you can do it better than any man in this city. We haven't always seen eye to eye, but you've always done what you thought was right and you always got the job done when the chips were down. Garcia's making a huge mistake, and I've got half a mind to tell him so."

"Gerry, we've been friends for a long time, so I know you'll take it the right way when I tell you not to be stupid. I do not want you to throw away your life and career for this. You only have five years until you're eligible for full retirement and I still have months of convalescing left anyway."

"Worked that out yet?"

"That's the other thing that happened today. Got this." He drew an envelope from his robe and offered it to Stephens. He took it, noting the copper plate handwriting and the stylized W gracing the stationary. Stephens drew the paper from within and read it over quickly, his eyes widening.

"You're kidding." He looked at Gordon who shook his head. "You're not kidding. Bruce Wayne is honestly offering to lend you his _penthouse_, and is willing to provide a nurse to look after you."

"It seems that way," Gordon said.

"I'm surprised he even realized. You didn't talk to him the day of the shooting, he was more concerned about whether his black eye would clear up before a date he had with some supermodel."

"You know shock can do insane things to anyone's mind, Gerry," Gordon commented. "But considering his history and all he's been through I am not surprised he took it hard. He disappeared for what, seven years? Not to mention the man's never had a life that could even be considered close to normal." He shook his head.

"I know. His disappearance was one of the cases I worked when I first made detective. I knew those files and the story inside, outside and upside down."

"As different as he is, taking him up on it would solve a lot of problems."

"Wait, you're thinking about accepting?"

"It seems like the better option. Yes, I know I could stay with you," he said before Stephens could interject. "But all those stairs in your house, on top of uprooting one of your sons again and giving extra work to your already hardworking wife…Gerry, all Wayne's putting out in this case is cash, and he sure as hell has plenty of that."

Gerry shifted uneasily in his chair, and finally got to his feet, walking over to the window. He stood there for a moment, his hands clenching and unclenching restlessly at his sides. Gordon watched him with a flash of amusement; having known the man for so long, he knew what would come next. Once Gerry got a hold of himself, he would turn and shoot one last volley in the disagreement before giving in to Gordon's reasoning. It happened after a brief moment, Stephens speaking with a hint of frustration in his voice. "Can you trust the man to follow through with it?"

"From what little I've heard about his butler," Gordon commented. "I wager Wayne couldn't back out without facing his wrath. Even if he did, there are other arrangements that can be made. Honestly, Gerry, I think it's for the best I accept his offer. It's the easiest for all involved." With a sigh, Stephens returned to his seat. "I know you both would be more than happy to have me, Gerry. But as your friend, I would feel better if I can manage in a way that won't give you any extra trouble. Particularly since Wayne won't be out anything."

"All right, Jim, I get it," Stephens said. "You do what you gotta do, and just know that me and Jess'll help out however you need."

"And it's appreciated." He smiled at his friend. "It makes me feel slightly better about this whole mess. Speaking of, have they gotten off your back?" Here, Gerry paused and a brief frown passed over his face.

"Manner of speaking."

"What's that mean?"

"They're holding me accountable for filing the false report. The punishment's not going to be as strict as it otherwise would be because they get why I did it, but still."

"What is it?"

"Since I was under duress and got no prior history, they said they don't have the grounds to fire me, but I'm riding a desk for at least three months, and they're busting me down from Lieutenant."

"To what?"

Stephens winced. "Officer. They reassigned so Bullock's partnered with Montoya and I'm stuck down with that rookie. Officer Allen."

"Jesus, Gerry…"

"I know, but it's much better than the alternative, Jim. The Bat hadn't intervened they'd still be cleaning my brains off the floor of that warehouse."

"Yes, but…"

"I still have a job. It's an insult, but I can get over being insulted. Couldn't get over being dead. Jess isn't thrilled this'll require me to walk the beat again, but we'll manage. And before you get mad at yourself for bringing me into it, you can just stop that thought before it even starts. You did what you had to do, same as I did."

Studying his friend for a moment, Gordon saw in his reaction several of the things he had always respected in Gerry Stephens. "You're a good friend, Gerry. Thank you."

"Did what I had to do, that's all," he told Gordon. "Same as we all have to do. Hell, I consider it a bit of a break. You know what working with Montoya's like." He gave a somewhat forced sounding laugh, and Gordon made himself laugh with him.

"Yeah I do. Had a partner just like her in Chicago when I first started out. Classic ball-buster."

"You said it, Jim," Stephens said. "She's been worse than usual the last few weeks. Bullock's called me at least twice to ask me how I put up with it."

"Harvey could use some straightening out. Montoya's just what he needs."

"Hell yeah," Stephens said. "Hey, did you hear what happened to her and Bullock the other night? She'd probably kill me if she knew I told you, but it's too good not to share. She and Bullock were heading back to the MCU from a crime scene, this is eleven, twelve at night, and they see this guy breaking car windows with a hockey stick. That's pretty standard for Gotham except, no shitting you here, the guy's wearing nothing but a diaper, which he ended up losing while they were trying to cuff him. She ended up having to drive back to the station with this mostly naked, ranting and raving whackjob in the backseat." He laughed. "You should have seen the look on her face when they brought him through into holding. Even better was all the rookies scurrying out of the way."

Gordon laughed. "How long did _that_ fit of temper take to subside?"

"Three days," Stephens said. "We finally pooled in and made sure there was a generous supply of those chocolate doughnuts she likes. Helped a bit, though she's still murderous if anyone references anything even remotely associated with it. Miller was talking about taking care of his baby girl, and mentioned needing diapers and…well, if looks could kill he'd have been vaporized."

"That's Montoya for you," Gordon said with a chuckle.

"So it is," Stephens responded, and the two men fell into a momentary silence.

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm going to miss it," Gordon admitted.

"Yeah," Stephens agreed. He rubbed his hands together and leaned forward where he sat, studying his shoes. "Been a helluva ride, hasn't it." Gordon nodded. "Well, when you're out of here, we'll go out. Have some beers. Drink to twenty years of missing sleep, greasy as hell meals at irregular times, a complete lack of respect, and all that other shit you won't have to deal with anymore."

Gordon chuckled. "I'd like that."

"Or I could buy the beer and we could hang out in your borrowed penthouse," he said. "See how the other side lives."

"That would work too," Gordon said.

"Good." Stephens glanced at his watch. "I'd better get back. Walking a tightrope right now and don't want to be late."

"Thanks for stopping by, Gerry. And for everything. I'm sorry that…"

"Hey, no apologies, Jim. Eyes wide open, you know?" Gordon hesitated a moment but then nodded. "I'll drop by tomorrow. May even haul Montoya with me, if we get a minute at the same time. You take care of yourself."

Gordon nodded. "Sure thing." Stevens nodded briefly and then got to his feet, crossing the room to the door. When he reached it, he paused briefly, turned as though he was going to say something, then shook his head. "Never mind," he said, at Gordon's questioning look. "I'll catch you tomorrow, commish." Stepping out, he closed the door behind him.

Weary, Jim Gordon sighed and pressed the call button for the nurse. Reaching out to close the slats of the blinds, he waited for her to come and help him back into bed. The sun shining on the skyscrapers of Gotham in all their glory was the last thing he wanted to see. He had always, since joining the police department for sure but especially since becoming commissioner, seen her as _his_ city, to serve and protect with everything. She had denied him now, but had taken everything first. His wife, his children, his job...and still more.

He pressed his eyes closed, and for a brief, illusory moment, thought about leaving. About going as far away from Gotham as he could get. About getting in his car and just driving until he found another place, a better place, a quieter, calmer, natural place where he could garden during the day and rest easy at night. A place where everything was quiet, where it would be easy to start a new life, maybe find another woman who would understand and love him for who and what he was, a woman who would make his children cookies when they came to visit and allow him time to go to Chicago to see them.

He sighed as the nurse came in and asked if he would like to shift back into his bed. He nodded, and she carefully pushed the wheelchair over to the bed, locked the wheels, and carefully helped him maneuver into a comfortable position.

It would never work. He knew it would never work. He would be released from the hospital and go first to Bruce Wayne's luxurious penthouse, then back to the home he and Barbara and the children had shared, empty now of smiles and laughter, with two small bullet holes still unrepaired on the wall across from the sink. After that…well, that was anyone's guess. He just hoped, as he slipped back into sleep, that some sort of opportunity would offer itself to him for a future beyond the Gotham City Police Department, a future that he had never before imagined.


	20. Chapter 20

**Title**: Criminal Acts (20/21)  
**Author**: StargazerNataku  
**Rating**: G  
**Genre**: Drama  
**Characters**: Detective Gerry Stephens, Renee Montoya, Jim Gordon, Batman  
Summary: Even after twenty years in the Gotham City police department and there were some cases that never got easier. It began with an overdose…and ended in major changes.

**Author's Note:** This is essentially the last chapter. There will be an epilogue to act as a bridge between this story and in the sequel, which is currently in planning stages, but I cannot bridge two stories if I'm not 100% sure what the details of the coming work are. Within the next few weeks I am hoping to post both the epilogue to this story, and the prologue to the next (which actually IS written) so that anyone who wishes to can sign up to follow the sequel can do so easily. I hope some of you will. Thank you for reading with me thus far!

**Chapter **_**20**_

It was much earlier than Bruce Wayne usually got himself out of bed when the alarm clock rang three hours after he had fallen asleep. He rose and stepped into the shower, taking more time than he usually did, making sure his hair was immaculately styled, every trace of stubble eradicated from his chin, and just the right amount of expensive cologne applied. When he came out of the bathroom, Alfred had, despite the hour, put his morning's breakfast on the table in front of the windows. He went to the coffee first without taking the time to luxuriate in the first sip as he usually did. In a businesslike manner he ate the toast and fruit, finished the coffee, and rose again to dress. Bruce Wayne, the offended prince of Gotham, had important matters to manage.

He dressed slowly, careful not to wrinkle the fabric of his suit, making sure his dress shirt was tucked into his pants exactly evenly before sitting to put on silk knit socks and perfectly shined and polished dress shoes. After, he rose and put on a dark red silk tie, again making sure it was perfectly knotted and resting against the pure whiteness of the dress shirt. Then he put in the diamond-studded cufflinks whose worth equaled what a normal person would make in six months and, with Alfred's help, shrugged into the matching black suit jacket, making sure that the cufflinks were visible below the jacket's cuffs. Only then did he turn to study himself in the mirror.

From head to toe his outfit screamed wealth and power. There were no wrinkles, no threads out of place to mar the image and Bruce nodded his approval. "I think this will do," he commented. "Thank you, Alfred."

"Indeed, sir," he said. "You'll be wanting the car right away, I expect?"

"Yes, Alfred. The mayor needs to understand just how...displeased...I am, and the earlier I arrive the better. The whole city knows that Bruce Wayne never appears before noon, and even noon is pushing it. If I show up in the Mayor's office at eight, it will make an impression."

"I'll bring it around then. If Bruce Wayne," he said wryly as he picked up the breakfast tray. "Would come downstairs in a minute, we'll be ready to leave."

"Thanks." He studied himself in the mirror for another minute before crossing the room to put on his custom Rolex, satisfied he would make the impression he wished to make. Crossing the bedroom, he made his way out through the penthouse's living room and pressed the button for the elevator. It took him down to the first floor, where Alfred was already holding open the door to the Rolls Royce.

The ride through the streets took some extra time as the morning commute was well underway for Gotham's millions. Bruce watched the world go by outside the window in silence as Alfred drove slowly down the packed streets, occasionally glancing in the rear view mirror to study his charge. "You can stop worrying, Alfred," Bruce commented after the man had done so several times. "Besides, you're the one who told me to do what I thought was right."

"Yes, sir, I did." They were silent for another long moment.

"And yet I sense a distinct note of disapproval," Bruce finally ventured.

"I have no opinion, of course, Master Bruce," Alfred answered, to which Bruce replied with a scoff.

"You, Alfred? No opinion? Impossible." He glanced up at his butler, and made a mental note not to ever introduce the man to Jim Gordon if he could help it. He recognized too many of Batman's little tricks, including pregnant pauses which spoke the volumes the butler would not voice, at least not aloud. They usually worked. "The mayor is making a huge mistake, you know that as well as I do. Things will get worse without Gordon around to run things. I won't keep quiet, not on this one. And it's well within my right, the man saved my life two months ago and very nearly died himself. Even airhead Bruce Wayne would realize that."

"I'm not sure which is worse," Alfred remarked as he executed a smooth turn. "You referring to yourself in the third person or you speaking of yourself as an 'airhead.'"

"All part of the smoke screen, Alfred. You know that."

"Yes sir. But, may I ask, what will you do if the mayor is...resistant?"

"I have backup plans. I brought Gordon this far, and I'm not going to let him suffer for it, no matter what choices he claims brought him to it." He glanced out the window again. "It was both of us, he's right, but I've got more power than he does right now to fix the fallout. Even if he doesn't know that."

"Very well, sir," he said as the car moved effortlessly into one of the open spots in front of city hall. "Shall I wait, sir?"

"If you could, Alfred. This shouldn't take long." He double checked his tie was straight as Alfred got out of the car and walked around to open the passenger door. Once he had, Bruce rose and carefully got himself out of the car, straightening his suit coat as he did so. "Thank you," he said, moving towards the building with purpose, already aware that people were staring at him unabashedly. He took that calmly, taking the stairs at a brisk, purposeful pace before entering the foyer and striding across it towards the next set of stairs as though he owned the building. Down a long hall and he was there, opening the door to the office outside the mayor's.

Garcia's secretary, just settling her own coat onto the rack in the corner, looked at him in barely contained surprise. "Mr. Wayne?" she said, the question layered with surprise in such a way that he knew it had come out without thinking.

"Is the mayor in yet?" he asked, making the demand clear in his voice.

"Wh...no, sir, he hasn't arrived yet. He let me know he's running late this morning. I'm expecting him shortly, though. Perhaps ten, fifteen minutes."

"I'll wait," Bruce informed her without waiting for her to ask.

"Mr. Wayne, I'm afraid the Mayor is in meetings this morning...Can I schedule an appointment for you?"

"No," he answered firmly. "Garcia can be late to the office, he can be a few minutes late to the meeting. I'll wait." He met and held her gaze. In her eyes he could see her nervousness, knew that she was wary of offending the mayor's biggest campaign contributor while at the same time terrified of what her boss would say. Her fear of him won out after a moment, however, and she inclined her head in agreement.

"Would you like a cup of coffee while you wait?" she asked.

"No, thank you," he answered firmly. "I'll wait in his office." He strode to the door, saw her start and then silence a protest in the time it took to cross the room, before opening the door and shutting it with finality behind him.

He stepped across the room to the windows behind the Mayor's desk, looking out over the river and the rest of downtown, not taking a seat to avoid wrinkling his carefully crafted costume for the day. He stood there watching, waiting, for nearly thirty minutes by the careful time kept in his mind, before he heard the outer door opening again and the still baffled secretary greeting the mayor. Words he could not make out came through the door, and he turned as Garcia opened the door to his office and stepped through, his coat hanging open above a suit that could never be as impeccable as Bruce's. "Mr. Wayne," the man said with a smile, the irritation hidden more deeply in his eyes where playboy-Bruce would never see it. "Good morning. To what do I owe the pleasure this early?"

"I had some news I didn't much like," Bruce said, keeping a hint of his carefully maintained cluelessness about his eyes and in the lines on his face. "No, I didn't much like it at all. Is it true you fired the commissioner?"

"How...Mr. Wayne," Garcia said. "I didn't think that news had gone public yet. I had hoped..."

"That no one would hear it before you had a replacement announced, from what I'm told. Why on Earth would you fire someone like him?"

"Well, Mr. Wayne," Garcia said, removing his coat and hanging it on the hat rack in the corner, "I'm afraid there's been some question as to the commissioner's...dedication to the people of this city."

"How can you possibly doubt that?" Bruce demanded, just the right amount of disbelief flowing into his voice. "That man took a bullet that could have had my name on it a few weeks ago, and very nearly gets killed, and you doubt his sincerity? I may not know much, Mr. Mayor, but I know that reeks of stupid."

"Won't you have a seat?" the mayor said calmly. "Can't I get you a cup of coffee?"

"No," Bruce answered, throwing in confusion with a hint of petulant child. "I want to know why you'd be so stupid as to fire the only man in decades who actually gives a shit about Gotham."

"He was accused of being in league with the Batman, Mr. Wayne. Surely we can both agree that that is a rather damning accusation, despite what else he has done. If you remember correctly, the man saved my life as well."

"In league with the Batman? Isn't Batman a murderer?"

"Yes, Mr. Wayne, that is what they say. Do you really want someone working with a murderous vigilante in charge of this city's police department?"

"I refuse to believe it," Bruce answered firmly. "Who accused him of this? One of his men?"

"No," Garcia answered. "Look, Mr. Wayne, it is an ongoing investigation that I have not been told any more about. The accusation was made, and..."

"Have you got any proof?" Bruce demanded, sitting down in the mayor's chair and sending him his best pissed-off-playboy look. "Proof is important in these cases."

"There is...sufficient evidence to indicate we may have an issue. I felt it best..."

"To fire a hard-working, honest man who's never done anything but good for this city!"

"I still feel it best that we remove him from office while the investigation takes place. What is done is done anyhow, Mr. Wayne, and I am sorry that you disagree, but there isn't anything to be done now. I'm sorry. Are you sure I can't get you that coffee?"

Bruce rose. "No, Mr. Mayor. I don't want anything." He let contempt creep into his voice. "You've made a big mistake. You won't see it, despite what he's done, but I won't support it in any way, shape or form."

"Mr. Wayne," Garcia protested, his eyes widening slightly. Bruce had to bite back a pleased smile as he watched the mayor's realization that all his political maneuverings had done nothing and that he was about ready to lose the checkbook of his biggest supporter.

"You have obviously made up your mind, and you'll have to excuse me." He crossed the room and spoke one last time just before he got to the door. "I just don't understand it, Mr. Mayor. You always seemed so...smart." He knew, coming from Bruce Wayne, that the comment would be harshly felt. "Excuse me." He opened the door and shut it, ignoring the secretary as she shot instantly to her feet. He opened the door and retraced his path down and out of the building, allowing anger and confusion to show on his face. Behind the mask, he noted everyone who caught the look, several pairs walking together falling into quick conversation as they passed.

_Perfect_,he thought to himself as he strode out of the building and back down the stairs to where Alfred was waiting with the car. Getting in, he waited for Alfred to take his place in the driver's seat before speaking. "Wayne Enterprises, please, Alfred. I have some arrangements to make."

"Of course, sir." Alfred put the car in gear and eased into traffic.

X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X

Jim Gordon shifted uncomfortably in the wheelchair he was sitting in, staring out the hospital window towards downtown. He sighed and looked down at his daughter's sketches, held lightly in his hands, then looked back out the window with a sigh. He had spoken to them the night before, affected cheerfulness, but it had been difficult. Stephens' reaction to his firing had been nothing but predictable and he hoped he had made the man see some sort of reason. He thought he had. They had, after all, been friends for a very long time.

Gordon turned his head at the knock on his door, calling for whoever it was to enter; he expected Stephens but instead was surprised by the entrance of Bruce Wayne, dressed even more impeccably than usual. "Commissioner," he said with a smile, holding up the bag. "I thought you may have gotten through all the DVDs I brought so I thought I'd bring a few more. See how you're doing."

"I am doing all right, Mr. Wayne," he said as he took the offered bag and pulled out the stack of DVDs within.

"A few of those were, yet again, Alfred's idea," he commented as Jim looked through the stack. "I haven't seen any of them. I'm not much for movies. Alfred was, before he had me to manage so you can trust his judgment."

"They've been keeping me busy. It's been helpful. Thank you again." He set them aside. "I got your note the other day. "

"Ah, yes. Well, with the manor rebuilt it only makes sense. I never use the penthouse and it's got an elevator and anything else you could need. And I've already found someone willing to help temporarily. A friend of the family recommended her; she's had nursing experience and is very good at what she does."

"Mr. Wayne..."

"If her trustworthiness is the issue, I can assure you..."

"That isn't it, Mr. Wayne."

"Bruce, please."

"Bruce, I really do appreciate it, and..."

"It's a good idea," Bruce told the commissioner. "I certainly don't need the penthouse. And Tina is a very good nurse, I can assure you. She'll be more than perfect for what you need. An old friend of the family got sick, you know. You've heard of Arthur Madison. Well, she nursed him day and night after he had that awful stroke; right up until he died she was right there. Patient as all hell, and very good at what she does."

"Mr. Wayne…"

"Bruce."

"Bruce, I…"

"I owe you a great deal and I won't hear any arguments. Please, commissioner." Jim Gordon studied the younger man for a long moment, noting not only the stubbornness in his face but also determination.

"Mr. Wayne, I am not trying to argue. I'm trying to thank you for your offer, and accept it."

"Bruce," Wayne said again. "And good. I'm glad I can do something to repay you. Speaking of which, I heard that you lost your job." There, Gordon reflected, was yet again the real Bruce Wayne, nonchalant and not understanding just how much a person could be affected by such a thing. He had never been fired from a job in his life. Hell, forget being fired, he had probably never _had_ a job in his life.

"I'm afraid so, Mr. Wayne."

"Well, I am sorry to hear that, but it certainly is good timing."

"What?" Gordon asked in surprise, shocked nearly speechless.

"You see, Wayne Enterprises is looking for a new head of their security division. I spoke to Lucius yesterday and he was quite insistent that I ask you to take the position. Someone with your experience in law enforcement and in Gotham would be an invaluable resource." There was a long moment of silence in which Gordon just started unabashedly at Wayne.

"Are you offering me a job?" Gordon finally asked.

"Yes. You need one, don't you? And we'd be more than willing to put together an exceptional package for you in terms of salary and benefits. I'd say we could probably add a good ten, twenty thousand a year to what you're making right now, extra if you work overtime, which may occasionally be required, but it will still be less time than you work now, I imagine."

"Mr. Wayne, why are you doing this?"

"Because you're the best person for the position, Jim. And you've gotten the short end of the stick with the Mayor. I went to see him this morning…"

"You did?" Gordon interrupted.

"Yes, yes." Wayne waved off his surprise. "And he questioned your integrity and I just couldn't accept that. You saved my life, and you've proved yourself more committed to Gotham than anyone else in this city. I'm not about to let you go out on the streets after all you've done. I value people who know how to do the right thing, and I want to reward them. I've got the offer right here." He held out the folder he had been carrying to Gordon, who took it and opened it, scanning the first page.

"Mr. Wayne, this is too generous…" he protested when he read the salary.

"It's what the current position holder is making," Wayne said, waving off his concerns. "You've met him I think, after the fundraiser the Joker crashed. His name is Lou Brewster. Good man, but wants to retire and move to California or something like that. Anyway, he's willing to delay retirement until you're able to step into the job. So go ahead and review what Lucius sent over, and give him a call to let him know what you've decided. It's a good opportunity though, Jim. If I were you, I'd take it."

"Mr. Wayne…"

"Bruce," the billionaire repeated.

"Bruce…" he said, beginning to protest. "How can I ever thank you for all this?"

"Nonsense," he said, waving off Gordon's concern. "It's I with the debt to repay."

Gordon stared at the billionaire for a moment before looking back down at the paper, silent, attempting to take it in. When he spoke again, it was not to protest. "Thank you, Bruce," he said. "I will look this over and let Mr. Fox know as soon as I can."

"Good," Wayne flashed him a million-watt smile. "Which way are you leaning though?"

"As you say, Mr. Wayne, I do need a job. And your terms are very generous."

"I hoped you'd think so," he said with a contented smile. "Well, Lucius will be able to get you started on the hiring paperwork when you're ready."

"Mr. Wayne," Gordon began, and then stopped, looking as though he had something to say but was unsure as to how to say it.

"Bruce."

"Bruce, I…I feel I owe you an apology."

"An apology?" It was the billionaire's turn to be surprised.

"I have been rather…uncharitable...in how I have thought and spoken of you. The last weeks have made it obvious how wrong I was, and I am sorry for it."

Gordon was surprised when Wayne started to laugh. "I'm sure a lot of what you said was true, Jim," he said. "You have high standards for behavior, and I am sure that my wastrel ways are the exact opposite of what you like to see. Alfred's been at me for years, but I'm afraid I am what I am. I can feel gratitude though, and I'm pretty good at indignation when I see something that isn't right. I don't believe for one minute you would ever work with a murderer like the Batman." Gordon felt a flush of guilt but wisely remained silent. "You've been vilified, and I'll be damned if I don't show the world just what I think about that. You saved my life and I am grateful for that and the other things you have done for me over the years. I feel like I ought to give what little I can in return."

"Bruce, offering me a place to stay, nursing, and a new job is more than just a _little_."

Again, Wayne waved off his concern. "The first is no inconvenience and just a little bit of money. And Lucius and Brewster agreed that you were the right man for the job. When Lucius heard you might be available, he suggested we try to get you for it. I'm just the messenger, at the whims of my CEO, since I have nothing better to do with my time."

"All the same, Mr. Wayne, thank you." An eyebrow rose and the billionaire studied him for a long moment. "Excuse me. _Bruce._" The smile split the man's face again.

"We'll break you of that habit yet, Commissioner. _Jim_," the man corrected immediately, and both men laughed. "Something to work on, anyway," he commented as he got to his feet. "You're not alone in this, Jim. There are people who don't believe what the mayor is saying for a second. Time will show the truth."

"I do hope so," Gordon answered, closing the folder he had been given in his lap. "Thank you."

"Any time. Oh, and everything, including Tina, is prepared at the penthouse for when the time comes, so just let me know when you will be released and we can get everything finalized. It'll be soon, I hope. It's been two months already."

"It will be in the next week or so, most likely," Gordon answered. "Thankfully. If I have to stare at these walls for much longer than that, I think they'll have to haul me off to Arkham." Bruce Wayne glanced around at the white walls, the white venetian blinds, and the bland print hanging above the bed.

"I can see why," he commented. "Well, I hope a few more DVDs will help the matter. I'm afraid I have to excuse myself, however. There's a board meeting this afternoon, and as _boring_ as they are, Lucius _insists_ I attend. I have just about enough time to get back."

"Well, don't let me keep you, Bruce. I will look this over and let Mr. Fox know my answer in the next few days. Thanks for stopping by."

"My distinct pleasure, Jim," Bruce said, before he swept out the door. For his part, Gordon reopened the folder lying on his lap and began to read through it in more detail, studying it carefully as he tried to ignore the disbelief that still threatened. When he had finished, he closed the folder and stared into space for several moments, his mind wandering before an unwitting chuckle broke free from him. He remembered Stephens' reaction to Wayne's penthouse offer, and had a sudden mental image of his friend's face after this new bit of news.

He turned his wheelchair so he could cross the room to get the mini-DVD player Wayne had given him, feeling hopeful for the first time in months. Surprised reactions aside, Gordon knew it was a good opportunity for reasons far beyond the good salary and benefits. There was travel involved to Wayne Enterprises branch offices, one of which was in Chicago; there was an excess of vacation time and the prestige involved in working for one of the top ten Fortune 500 companies, as essentially a cop no less. With a smile, he set the folder aside, knowing full well that, in the end, he would take the job. He was not an idiot, and only idiots turned down such a generous setup genuinely and freely offered, particularly when other options were most likely non-existent. And that was not to mention the icing on the cake, he thought with a self-satisfied smile. There was always the opportunity to meet the mayor at fundraisers and see the look on his face at Gordon so well set up by Bruce Wayne at a time when Garcia himself was no longer one of the billionaire's favorites.

Karma, Gordon decided, was indeed a bitch when she ought to be.


End file.
